Getting Zen In 2015

1416624462973_Image_galleryImage_Beyonce_7_11_video_on_Bey2015, so far, has been the year of me trying really hard to get “zen” … whatever that means. And quite frankly, it is not an easy task. Especially for someone like me who gets thrown off track the minute a shiny thing presents itself. It’s sad … but oh so true.

So I thought to myself, self, what makes you relax? What would give you the allusion that you are laying on the beach when in reality you are on a PATCO train on the way to work? Since I don’t believe in list making (not even on the notes section of my iPhone, I blame my mom as she is a list making freak … thanks, mom), I mentally thought shit out.

I can say three months into 2015, I’m already starting to feel more “zen,” more relaxed, and more present in the moment. It is so easy to get caught up in meeting deadlines, pleasing every single person in your life, cutting time out for friends and family, finding the “man/woman of your dreams” and attending event after event. But it is fucking exhausting, am I right?

More than ever I’ve realized taking time for you is so important for your mental and physical well-being. So lovely readers, I encourage you, for once, to follow in my footsteps in becoming your own biggest priority. And no, I’m not becoming a self help guru. I just play one on a blog.

Reading Rainbow: I set a goal for myself to read one book a month, and so far so good. In fact I’m surpassing said goal (what, what! :::Raises roof:::). I’m a huge fan of biographies/autobiographies, and find diving into someone’s life and words for a bit kind of takes the heat off of your own. Even just reading one chapter before bed helps ease yourself into a peaceful nights rest.

Get a Hobby, Freak: Everyone laughs at me when I tell them this, but I’ve always had a fascination with weaving. Yes. Weaving. People ask hesitantly, “but what will you make?” And when I tell them tapestries and they laugh and say, “what the hell does that mean,” or “yeah right :::eye roll:::” I then stand my ground and guarantee that they will receive my first tapestry as a housewarming gift. So I dare you to make fun of my hobbies, fools.

Make Time For People Who Count: While we all think we have super human powers and can be in 20 different places at once, we cannot. And quite frankly, who the hell wants to? Literally clear your schedule and start fresh. Figure out how to make time for the people who make you shine inside and out. You know who they are. Do this for a month and see what happens.

Do Instead of Dream: Want to get a massage? Make it happen. Sick of your hair color? Find a good stylist and get er done. What is stopping you from going to a museum exhibit or a new restaurant you’ve been dying to try? Probably you and only you, kid. Buy yourself that expensive bottle of wine that you’ve been curious about because you know why? YOLO … oh yeah, I said it, YO to the LO. (Okay, I really hate myself for saying that … DAMN YOU, Drake, DAMN YOU!)

Get Yo Health On: Thanks to ol’ man winter and his bitchy frost bite, I was feeling a little, hmm, how you say, disgusting. So I marched myself to a dietician and figured out how to get healthy. My goal was to lose 10 pounds (be realistic because becoming Kate Moss overnight isn’t real life), and we worked together to accomplish that in a healthy way over the course of several weeks. The beauty is, I can still eat whatever I want, whenever I want, because me with no carbs equals the devil.


Let Your Handbags Scream

Emerging-Designer-MILLI-MILLUWhen it comes to clothes, people from all aspects of my life like to define me as “goth.” As much as it irritates the hell out of me and makes me want to stomp on top of a desk and say, “I DON’T WORSHIP SATAN, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD,” it’s kind of true. Color just has no room in my wardrobe. This was made evidently clear when I went shopping last week and everything in the fitting room was black, see below.

CaptureThe weird thing is, when it comes to accessories, handbags, jewels, socks, I love me some color. The big, bold pops are everything. I’m not just talking about ROYGBIV-in, I’m talking straight up neon. I know, right? What the hell is wrong with me? I go from an Alvira-like wardrobe to an 80’s teeny bopper when it comes to my accessories. But hey, I don’t try to make sense of my madness, though.

This spring, I’m jonsin’ for a big bag that pops. As much as it pains me to retire my black and white statement tote that has been my companion this fall and winter, it is time to move on to something a little more festive and fun … and that can burn people’s eyes from miles away.

Perhaps it is because this winter was so brutally cold, or the insane urge I have to burn my winter coat … either or. But the more obnoxiously loud the handbag the better, is what I say for spring.

So behold… just some of the handbag muffins I’m currently drooling over:







Style Stud: Chloe + Isabel

CaptureIf you haven’t noticed by my rants, my Instagram feed, my tweets, and if you recall my picture tour of my bedroom, you all are well aware of the fact that I’m a huge whore for jewelry. I’m not talking like Elizabeth Taylor diamonds or anything (they make me nervous), but straight up costume jewelry is my idea of heaven. My mom tells me my grand kids, if they happen to be girls, will be super pumped about my addiction, but the idea of having kids let alone THEIR kids playing with my jewelry makes me break out in hives. So … moving on!

You can imagine how thrilled I was to meet the lovely people over at Chloe + Isabel. I live for getting the opportunity to meet new jewelry brands and the people behind them, while getting a real-time, up close and personal experience with the product. What can I say, I like to get intimate with my jewels (not in a weird dysfunctional way, freaks, calm down).

With me, packaging is everything. And opening my package from Chloe + Isabel did NOT disappoint. I actually opened it with my mom peering over my shoulder as she is just as much of a jewelry whore as I am (apple doesn’t fall far, am I right?). It went a little something like …

Mom: OMG is that a bird cut out?! What! Give me that! :::hangs felt bird on cabinet:::
Mom: Holy crap, are you wearing these pieces tomorrow?!
Me: No? :::barely even opening the box:::
Mom: Good because they so go with what I’m wearing. They are mine.

So yeah … I had the products for about two seconds before the got confiscated by a woman who plans out her outfits, and irons them, days in advance. Love ya, Ma.

The packaging is too cute, the perfect thing to send to a friend for a birthday or just a little “happy happy” as my crazed family likes to call random gifts. It comes with a little inspiring note on the packaging, which hey, we all could use whether you want to admit it or not. And my favorite was that my bracelet came in a little tiny tote-like bag, that I just wanted to squeeze out of not being able to control how cute it was (I’m a freak, I get it).

So even though my mom stole my jewelry, once I get it back from her (if I ever do, she’s got a fierce grip), I’m really excited to style these eclectic pieces. There is truly something for everyone, so no excuse not to buy yourself a little treat … because it’s Friday, it’s officially spring, and it’s God damn snowing, for crying out loud.

Big thanks to Jen over at Chloe + Isabel! She’s your go-to gal. Tell her Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra sent you.




The Go-To Emergency Outfit

audrey-as-holly-in-sleep-mask_rect540I have a serious snoozing problem. In fact I set my alarm for 45 minutes earlier than I need to get up so I can casually and comfortably snooze myself out of a sound nights rest … for 45 minutes. I know … I have issues.

It’s a dangerous game to play. You really have to stay somewhat lucid so you don’t fall back into a deep sleep. But there are signs to look for to know you are doomed for lateness. Like when you look at your phone and instead of it saying “click to snooze” it says “click to snuggle.” (Yes, this has actually happened to me).

Or there are the times when you turn off your alarm instead of hitting snooze … like I did this week. And before you know it, you’re back in that amazing dream, thinking to yourself, “I still have 10 more minutes, I still have 10 more minutes.” But in reality, you’re fucked.

It’s the worst feeling when you open your eyes, look at your phone and see that you should have been out of bed 15 minutes ago. The. Worst. Especially when you have somewhere to be. The first thing I think of is what can I do to make getting ready 15 minutes faster? It usually involves skipping a shower (which, don’t look disgusted, I usually shower the night before so there). Or nixing that interesting hair style I’ve been dying to try.

But I realized something incredibly important. Sure, we may all plan our outfits out for the next day whether we physically do it or put it together in our brains. I know I do. But sometimes those outfits involve a lot of effort whether it be lots of jewelry, lots of layering, or lots of ironing, lint control, etc. In other words, not conducive for someone who is running insanely late.

So in those moments when you wake up, heart racing, cursing the Gods for not allowing us to levitate or teleport, you need a go-to emergency outfit. Luckily for me, I had one. I like to think I keep it in glass, and when the moment arises when I sleep too long, I can karate chop through the figurative glass where I keep said emergency outfit, setting off figurative sirens, throw it on and be out the door.

This go-to emergency outfit is plain old simple, yet stylish, of course. Mine involves a pair of stretch pants (that usually are lint magnets, but in times like these, you just have to make sacrifices. People who get up late also get a hot mess card to use). The stretch pants are paired with an over-sized, comfortable sweater, boots, and a statement necklace. And boom, I’m out the door. In the summer, my go-to emergency outfit, usually, is a maxi dress. Summer is just easier, am I right?

I try to only touch this outfit when I’m insanely lazy, or insanely late. But sometimes it gets worn a lot (winter is a bitch, what can I say). I’m beginning to think if someone drew a cartoon character of me, I would be in this outfit, all day err day. But, you know, I’m okay with it. Because without this easy outfit, I wouldn’t have made it to work on time, I wouldn’t have made a deadline, and instead would be pondering in my bedroom if I can mix and match argyle with stripes … and stressing myself out trying to make my hair Real Housewives wavy.

So ladies, get this outfit in order immediately. Consider it your suit of armor against lateness and looking like a disheveled mess. You can thank me later. And if you see a friend, co-worker, or frenemy wearing the same outfit constantly, instead of talking shit, give them a little head nod for being prepared like a BOSS.

Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra’s School Of Manners

5e10435925a18dcbe3b0c64eba8392b7Recently a co-worker of mine said people in her life have noticed her saying “balls” way more often then she should be. And then went on to blame me for this. Before I could even defend myself, a montage of me saying “balls” was playing in my head. Dropped my pen: “Balls.” Missed a deadline: “Balls.” Just plain old tired: “Balls.” Not knowing what I want for lunch: “Balls.” I mean …

And that got me thinking about what “being a lady” has turned into. I’ve always been fascinated with the past when women dressed to the nines to go to the mall or even on an airplane. When “stretchies” weren’t even a word. And now look at us. People wear sweats out to really nice restaurants. Why?!

When I do an audit of my manners, I can’t help but shake my head, just a little. And I’m sure my grandmothers are up in heaven sipping their martinis shaking their heads, too. Sure, I say my “pleases” and “thank yous” and hold doors open for people. But in the same breath I have a mouth like a sailor (sorry family, you know it’s true), I slouch, and sometimes, here and there, have been known to let out a burp or two (I mean, I’m human).

While even the thought of going back to the days of wearing a hat and gloves and brooches and the big, beautiful dresses actually exhausts me and I really like the fact that I can wear whatever I please, and say whatever the fuck is on my mind (see what I did there), I do think we can adjust some things in our lives that MAY seem like common sense in order to make us more manners savvy.

I know, I know, who am I to be shelling out advice on manners, right? Well … I like to think I am pretty polite (thanks mom), minus the whole cursing like a sailor thing. And not only will these slight tweaks make us more shiny and brilliant to people of the opposite sex, new friends, AND new employers, it will also make us way more classy.

So behold … your first lesson on manners by Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra:

1. Limit The Eff Bombs: This will be tricky even for me. But Jesus, know your audience. If you’re walking down the street, telling a heated story, maybe don’t say, “fuck this” and “fuck that.” If you’re at a restaurant … absolutely no cursing. If you’re at work and drop something and want to say, oh I don’t know, “balls,” think about the people around you. And when you’re in the comfort of your own home, let it rip. But take down your cursing by 25% overall … at least. Apparently it isn’t “lady like” to speak like a truck driver (which, Ps. I think truck drivers get a bad rap).

2. Buy Yourself a Proper Tea Cup: Every lady should own a tea cup, as I write this drinking tea out of a paper cup. Literally. A paper cup. This past weekend dealing with laryngitis, I brewed myself some black tea, added some whiskey (strictly doctors orders, kind of, not really), and drank it out of a lovely floral tea cup. It made me feel dignified. Throw away that college mug, go to Home Goods, and indulge in some proper tea cups … saucer and all. It will make feel amazing. Stop asking questions and just do it.


3. Say No To Sweats: I actually saw a woman walking into the Capitol Grille once wearing sweats. SWEATS. To the Capitol Grille! If I’m paying over $20 for a meal, my ass will be in a dress, a-thank you very much. But it shouldn’t just be the rule for fancy shmancy restaurants. If you’re going out to dinner, or even out for drinks, no matter where you are going … make an effort. Your sweats will be there when you come home in a food coma, I promise.

4. Write Letters: I know, stamps are so annoying. They are never there when you need them to be and the idea of going to the Post Office is maddening. But you don’t just need to be getting married or having a baby to write a proper thank you note. Send one to the owner of a boutique you had a great experience in, send one to a friend just for the hell of it (they will think it’s creepy at first, but then will be all about it). Trust me, I do a happy dance whenever I get anything in the mail that isn’t a bill. So go buy yourself some rad stationery and a good pen (I’m a HUGE pen snob) and make it happen.

5. Cellphones Away For A Better Day: Once upon a time, checking your phone constantly whilst at lunch meant you were an incredibly busy and important woman. Now, thanks to reality shows like The Hills, and Vanderpump something or other, every clown does it. And it’s rude. And might I add weird. Have you ever looked at a group of women eating lunch together and ALL of them were on their cellphones? Hell I’ve been apart of that group of women. When food or drinks are present, keep your phone in your purse and try not to reference anything having to do with social media that will make you want to pull your phone out. I know, I know it will be hard not to Instagram your lunch, but make a rule that it is 1985. Live in the real world, kids, live in the real world.

Spring Shoes: Woof

af557433c196b9a2aaf06140a5454486Has anyone noticed how fugly shoes are this spring? I feel like I jumped into some weird time machine and zoomed back to my days in the 90’s when I would have sold my mother to have a full wardrobe from Delias (RIP).

Usually I’m over-joyed with the articles outlining the “top 10 must-have shoes for spring” as I fill my virtual shopping cart. And as it gets fuller and fuller, I contemplate ways of how I could afford them all including selling my body (just kidding … kind of … sort of :::shifty eyes:::). 

Now I’m staring at my computer screen making a really ugly face (think of an ugly cry face but without the crying) and quietly exclaiming to myself, “WHY.” Seriously. I’m in no way shape or form running out to get a pedicure to expose my feet in all of these eye sores. I’ll keep my over-the-knee boots zippered up, a-thank you very much.

What happened to the days of Carrie Bradshaw when shoes were like candy, huh? The ones that were sparkling, colorful, sky-high, and made you feel like a model running around the city. Now I just feel like everyone is going to be walking around this spring recreating a failed Spice Girls video. GAWL POWAH! I don’t know who these fashion editors are kidding, thinking I will put my shower shoes from college back on (yes I wore platform sandals in the shower in college, we didn’t have a great drainage system), but I shant. I SHANT, I say.

So without further adieu, let me activate your gag reflex because, well, misery loves company, am I right? And don’t even bother clicking on them thinking I’ll send you to the link because why on God’s green Earth would I do that to anyone? You’re we,come.



Stop it.


Insert Emoji Vom Face


Dear GOD why?


Seriously? My eyes.


Please, no more.


Down With The Fashion Po Po

5f083_fashion_policeWhile I am not the biggest fan of Kathy Griffith, I gotta give her a standing O for stepping down from Fashion Police. Thanks to the likes of American Idol, producers of reality shows almost demand there be the one America wants to take home, and the one America wants to punt in the face. But when you put that concoction into a show like Fashion Police, all you end up getting is E!’s version of “Mean Girls.”

I get it, they wanted to keep Joan Rivers’ legacy alive. They wanted to bring someone in who says whatever the hell she wants whenever the hell she wants, so we all GASP and laugh and say, “Oh Joan, you devil!”. And if that gets them heat, well then so be it.

Joan sputtered off anti-Semitic statements … for the LOVE, and many other very offense ones that people got up in arms about. But at the end of the day, people were kind of just like, “meh … it’s Joan. She’s old.” Right. But regardless of her age, or her brand, or this persona of a “speaks her mind any time,” it was wrong and IS wrong. And can I say, outdated?

Right now, a HUGE overwhelming problem we have is bullying. And bullying to the point of kids taking their own lives because of stress, not fitting in, their appearance, or not living up to “societies standards.” The last thing we need is for these impressionable kids to be watching these adult bullies rip apart celebrities for materialistic reasons. Giuliana Rancic mine as well be chilling up against her locker with all her cool friends, making fun of the girl whose hair doesn’t look like everyone elses. By her saying this shit, it is making it okay for others do the same. You are a PUBLIC FIGURE. Not a mean girl. Get it together.

The only one who has any business being on that show is Brad Goreski. He’s a stylist. He knows what works, what doesn’t, what fit is right, and what jewelry went with what look. He can give an honest critique, JUST a critique, if a look worked. Where as the others, who have no fashion experience, and being an E! News correspondent doesn’t count or a comedian, just go for the jugular. I feel like a Kindergarten teacher when I say, “MAKING FUN OF PEOPLES APPEARANCES ISN’T OKAY.”

I hate to get all serious and shit, but the world we live in now doesn’t need a show like Fashion Police anymore. And I love Kelly Osbourne and Kathy Griffith recognizing that and stepping down. Instead bring on people who are fashion experts and teach us what works, what doesn’t, how a dress should fit, etc. Teach these impressionable minds something besides like, “oh that bitch CLEARLY got dressed in the dark.”

I know I’m going to make an effort to not be such a “mean girl” whilst watching the red carpet, and just in general, although I try to keep those things to myself (it doesn’t count if you say it in your head). Set examples, people, set examples. Because saying something mean about another persons appearance doesn’t do anything for anyone … except make you look like an asshole.

It’s Friday The 13th, Kids!

Cher-with-Black-Cat-Dark-LadyToday I cannot stop singing, “Dark Lady,” by Cher. And if you don’t know what song I’m referring to, FOR SHAME, people, FOR SHAME. Seriously. Get it together. Life priorities. So before continuing on reading this marvelous post, please watch this and feel free to flip your hair and put your tongue to your top lip while exclaiming, “hooooooo!” as you sing into your hair brush as much as you please.

Now … back to brass tax. It’s Friday the 13th. Have I mentioned that I’m majorly superstitious? Because I am. Henceforth why this day usually has me secretly waiting for the sky to fall or something. But in an effort to not give too much of a shit anymore with things regarding superstition (watch, now a random bold of lightning is going to get me), I’ve decided to focus on the positive side of Friday the 13th. That is all things dark. Clearly.

If this post was Sesame Street (which honestly, would make no sense. The word of the day is Balls, kids … yeah, no.) The color of the day would be black. Hence why I’ve had “Dark Lady” stuck in my head since the minute I opened my eyes. “DARK LADY LAUGHED AND DANCED AND LIT THE CANDLES ONE BY ONE …. :::hair flip::: HOOOOO” Sorry for the outburst, I couldn’t help myself.

So in honor of Friday the 13th, I would like to outline some of my favorite pieces in the color black. My favorite wardrobe color. And it is the color of the day if we were on Sesame Street … which we are not. Enjoy and buy yourself a little something. It is Friday, for crying out loud.












Simmer Down, Spring Freaks

cat_with_flower_wreathHoly lord, it isn’t negative 2 degrees outside! What the WHAT?!

You know when you wear something for too long and you are so sick of it you want to set fire to it (No? ? Just me?). Well that is how I feel with my Northface parka. While I know I’m fortunate to have it, and probably sound like a huge brat for saying this, that shit is getting donated next year to someone who will appreciate it more, because I loathe it. It’s ugly and I hate it (bonus points if you know what brilliant movie I pulled that quote from). We’ve spent too much “quality” time together and I want to punt it in its stupid coat face.

And that is what I did yesterday when I looked at the weather on my iPhone and saw that it was going to be in the mid-50’s all week (not really, it is still hanging perfectly on my coat rack). While I was dusting off my myriads of other beloved coats for days that don’t feel like the cold breath of death, other people in the city had, well, a different plan.

Apparently mid-50’s means whipping out shorts, tank tops, and Rainbow flip flops. I clearly didn’t get the memo. I get it, this winter was a bitch. It was “take your breath away cold” every freaking day, and the first hint of spring mine as well be a shot of vodka for people. You just want to drink it all in because it’s so good once it hits your lips. You want to say, “fuck it,” and open those vacuumed sealed bags of all your summer shit and throw your inhibitions to the wind. I really do understand where you’re coming from. But … you’re crazytown. Straight up.

While I would love nothing more than to throw on a maxi dress, a pair of gladiator sandals and walk around pondering what restaurant I want to sit outside at without wanting to pee my pants because it is so frigid, I’m not ready. Ladies need to do some thangs before one is prepared to indulge in springtime shenanigans. Am I right?

1. Shave your legs: Yeah … I mean it isn’t like I’m a wooly beast underneath my skinnies, but I will be the first to say I do a half ass job at it during the winter. I’ll focus on my ankles, because they MAY make an appearance, but everything else is kind of meh. I’ll go days without doing it (hey gents, aren’t I a catch?!) because I don’t care and trick myself into thinking that the extra hair keeps me warm. I know I’m wrong, but so what?! A good ol’ fashioned leg shaving, ankles to upper thighs, needs to commence before anyone sees any of my short shorts that I don’t own.

2. Pedicures: I’ve given up trying to keep my toes painted in the winter. What is the point? I just shove them into pairs of socks which then get shoved into over-the-knee boots. Who cares? My toes don’t see the light of day in the winter (nothing is worse than cold toes). And unpainted toes SKEEVE. ME. OUT. So you can only imagine the condition my feet are in. I won’t go in to details because I HATE feet (I mean I do the general maintenance, I’m not that much of a beast), but still. Mama needs a pedicure.

3. Spray tan: Nothing is worse when you go from wearing layers on layers on layers to a thin cotton dress, exposing skin that hasn’t seen the light of day in MONTHS. I always feel like I’m walking around naked the first time I wear a dress sans stockings the first time in the spring. It’s heinous. So to take the edge off, giving your skin a little TLC just might be what the doctor ordered. Moisturizing all your nooks and crannies, exfoliating, and dragging your ass to get a proper spray tan will make the transition a little less weird. I’m not talking about a Kim Kardashian spray tan, but just a little tiny peck from the sun is what I’m about.

So while I’m applauding this warmer weather, I am secretly judging you if I see you strutting around in shorts and Rainbow flip flops. Simmer down. Seriously. Now if you will excuse me, I’m for realsington (seriously are you guys watching the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt because if not you should be), going to punt my Northface parka in its coat face.

What A Bleach!

465268104Oh em gee, you guys, Kim Kardashian’s hair is platinum blonde. What in the living EFF?!

Okay, clearly, just kidding. Remember? We shant speak like that moving forward. But in all seriousness, her hair went from midnight to platinum blonde overnight. And according to her Instagram (not that I follow her or stalk her or anything :::shifty eyes:::) it only took one dye job to do so. And to that, I gotta say, OUCH.

I started dying my hair when I was 18, like an idiot. No matter how many adults told me, “once you start you really can’t stop,” much like Pringles … I didn’t believe them slash didn’t care. Because just like when eating Pringles … I could stop, okay?! I wanted JUST a tint of red to my brunette locks. Just a tint. Not a big deal. Hmph … famous last words.

A day after I turned 18, and the same day my friends were throwing me a surprise party, I went to get my hair dyed for the first time. My stylist put the dye onto my hair, and immediately, it felt like my scalp was on fire (Again … I just wanted a HINT of red). The pain was excruciating, and the worst part was, I couldn’t do anything about it. I tried to itch the side of my head casually to give myself some relief, but it just caused my finger nails to turn a weird color. The pain was so bad I almost began to panic.

Since I was a hair dying neophyte, I assumed this is what happens when you put chemicals on your head … severe, tears in the eyes, pain. Little did I know one thing and one thing only causes this sensation to happen: bleach.

Bleach hurts like a mother fucker. All I wanted to do was run my head under cool water while someone massaged my scalp to relieve me of the hell my scalp was enduring. If I was smart and knew what was happening, perhaps I would have been like, “ummm dude, why the hell did you put bleach on my head when all I WANTED WAS A GOD DAMN TINT OF RED! NOW I LOOK LIKE THIS!”

CarrotTop.3.250Hey, you live and you learn. But everyone knows becoming a blonde is a very long and painful process, especially if you have dark hair. It takes steps. And unless you want to have straw for hair, a platinum blonde look cannot be accomplished in one sitting. Right? I mean that is what stylists have told me for years … not that I want to be blonde or anything (or do I!?)

So for Kim Kardashian to go from long brown hair to a short, platinum do, I mean … I assume it looked a lot like this:

enhanced-buzz-1142-1367424408-19I’ll give it to her, though. She is the definition of embracing pain for the sake of being beautiful and making a statement. And that is what fashion is all about, right? I’ve been staring at myself in the mirror for over a week now, yawning at my hair. I’m not saying I’m going to turn into a platinum blonde goddess overnight (because A. I don’t want to do that B. I don’t employ the same mystical glam squad Kim K does). But it does make me think about broadening my horizons when it comes to my hair.

So hats off to her for this edgy new look. Because I’ve decided having the same hair color and cut that you have in your high school graduation picture is not a good thing (yeah … I’m referring to myself).

I’m Trying To Can With This Post … But I Can’t

Capture6I’m 100% guilty of being an exaggerator to get my point across in conversation. Even just then in that sentence I exaggerated by saying “100%.” I don’t have the actual stats, but hey, it kind of verbally underlines and bolds it, don’t ya think?

So I couldn’t help but giggle at the SNL skit last weekend detailing the conversations of millennial interns. If you haven’t watched it yet, please do so. It will bring your dismal, rainy Wednesday up a notch. But whilst watching and laughing and saying, “oh interns,” I stopped dead in my tracks and thought to myself, “I LITERALLY say some of this stuff … holy shit I JUST DID IT. ACK!”

Millenials, right? Wrong. This kind of “speech” (if that is what we are calling it) runs across a vast number of ages. And after much thought and contemplation, I believe it is because we have all been hypnotized by reality shows like the Hills, Laguna Beach, and basically anything on Bravo and E!

I mean the Kardashians alone … hello? Have you HEARD them? Long drawn out vooooooooowels, lots of “EW.” and calling each other ridiculous names like “slores” (which, true story I have absolutely adopted that shit into my vocabulary … it’s too good not to), have trickled their way into every day conversation making us all think it is okay, when, in real reality, it is not.

Should we all go back to the Eliza Doolittle school of speech? Instead of “the rain in Spain,” nonsense, Professor Henry Higgins would sit us all down and attempt to get us to say a sentence without the word “literally” in it … because it makes no sense. You’re talking and telling a story. It’s not “figuratively” happening. So … then it must be literal. And by you telling me it is literally happening seems kind of repetitive, right? Right.

For the love of God, we need to stop pretending we are being filmed for a reality show as we sit at a bar and gab to our girlfriends about how we will, “LITERALLY die if we ever see that scumbags face ever again.” I’m guilty of it. Sometimes I hear myself talking after a few cocktails and I have this ache in my stomach for fear of what the quaint little couple next to me is thinking as I morph into my Kourtney Kardashian alter ego. Maybe I just shouldn’t give a shit, who knows.

All I’m saying is, hats off to SNL for making light of something most girls are guilty of. If you pride yourself on your proper and perfect English speech, then good for you, Harvard grad, here’s a cookie. For the rest of us average millennials, let’s make a conscious effort to remove these from our vocabulary today. I wish I could shock you every time you said, “LITERALLY” or “I DIIIIIIIIIIIE,” but alas, I fear that is drastically illegal.

Class is in session. Lesson 1: Things we should no longer be saying … ahem:

1. Literally

2. OH MY GOD :::fill in blank:::

3. I can’t even

4.I literally … just cannot

5. Exaggerations regarding the weather … Ex: It’s like 500 degrees in here, I’m melting (no it’s not, it’s a balmy 78 and you will live)

6. Don’t even

7. Exaggerations regarding timing … Ex: Uuuggghhh, I’ve been waiting for you for like a million trillion years (you would be dead if that was LITERALLY true. Stop it.)

8. Exaggerations about hunger … Ex: My stomach is literally eating itself, I’m going to pass out and die. (It isn’t scientifically possible to happen in one day. Calm down and eat a Kind bar.)

9. Really? REALLY?

10. EW, Seriously? EW.


Recovering Designer Jean Addict

tumblr_inline_munac26pwD1qifdz4I didn’t own a pair of jeans until I was 11. True story. And for a while I told people it was because I didn’t like the way they felt, so instead I rocked leggings and jean overalls (I was truly a hot mess as a child). But it wasn’t because I didn’t like the way they felt. Mostly it was because … and be prepared to laugh … I was worried I wouldn’t be able to unbutton/zipper them while going to the bathroom at school. Go ahead … I’ll give you some time to soak that dysfunction in. Sigh. (Side bar: I only recently got the balls to tell my family the true reason behind my disdain for jeans as a child … it only took a decade or so and a half bottle of wine, but the truth was revealed. They laughed. Hard.)

So at age 11, my sister had enough of having me in her life looking a hot/freakish mess and drug me to Old Navy to buy me my first pair of jeans. I ended up getting the most traditional jeans one could find, and I remember them being a size double zero in boot cut style. From that point on, I was hooked … and could absolutely unbutton AND zipper them every time I went to the bathroom at school. Boo-yah!

But one pair of Old Navy jeans (I’m sure they were like $19.99), spiraled me into a jean obsession throughout my teenage years. Old Navy turned into Gap. I remember I cried when I went from a size 2 to a size 4 in Gap jeans when I was 14. Why my mother didn’t backhand me, I have not the slightest idea. The woman is a saint, what can I say.

My addiction became worse once I saw rich, popular girls strutting around the halls of my school in what was known as “designer jeans (hey, remember the 2000s?).” I’m pretty sure I sold my soul for a pair of Mavi’s in the 8th grade. And then there was that time when I made my mom buy me a pair of Lucky Brand jeans with the pockets faded on the ass, that were SO low, like B. Spears low, I still have back problems from slouching in my chair in high school so no one saw my crack. Oh yeah … and it said “get lucky” when you unzipped the zipper. Jesus. CHRIST. I was 15.

Every summer my mom and I went to NYC for some “back to school” shopping. And as a true jean addict, I had to go check out the boutique where the freaking Olsen twins bought their jeans at in SoHo … clearly. And that is when … :::covers face::: … my mom bought my 16-year-old self, a $300 (yep … drink that number in) pair of jeans. One pair of jeans. For $300. My ass had no business being in a pair of $300 jeans. Hell, my 28-year-old ass has no business RIGHT NOW being in a pair of $300 jeans. Again … maybe I slipped my mom some crack, I don’t really recall, but the woman is a fucking saint.

I cringe when I think about that moment. I just remember my mom being so happy because those jeans made ME so happy (did I mention the woman is a fucking saint?). And now, as a 28-year-old adult who buys her own clothes, I have trouble splurging on a pair of $60 jeans, let alone a $300 pair. I’ve secretly wanted to write my mother a check for $300 to pay her back from those stupid, overpriced jeans. I think it will cleanse my soul.

Jeans for me right now can be defined as $25.99 black skinny jeans from H&M. That’s as far as I go. As a recovering designer jean addict, I don’t give jean sections at stores the time of day. For a while I was thinking it was because jean shopping is oh so overwhelming, but then after a lot of thought I realized, “holy shit, do I not like jeans anymore?!”

It came to me when I was reading “I’ll Drink To That,” by Betty Halbreich (if you haven’t read this book, do it, this woman is a BOSS). A boyfriend of hers insisted she bought her first pair of jeans. As a proper lady, she never wore pants because it was a huge no-no back in the day (God,I was born in the wrong decade). And at an attempt to invest in a pair, she failed miserably, because, at the end of the day, she hated jeans. And that’s when it hit me, “I’m not a jeans wearing kind of gal anymore.” Amen, Betty, amen.

Jeans have just made me yawn recently. Unless I’m rocking them with a pair of fierce heels, I may or may not fall asleep. Jeans are great for running errands, doing shit around the house, but otherwise, there are way more productive things to spend your money on. Maybe one day, if I had some kids and a family, my ass will make their way into a pair of “mom jeans” … bahahaha I kid, I kid … I would rather die. And if I HAVE to rock a pair of jeans, I’ll go for my faves from Forever 21 for $10. Sure you can only wear them once or twice, but they are $10! You heard it. $10. (Ps. I could have bought 30 pairs of them with that money my mom spent on that awful $300 pair … I’ll never stop being ashamed … perhaps I need therapy).

Experiencing Miss Philadelphia 2015

CaptureOne of my favorite past-times as a child was watching the Miss America pageant. My mom would get me takeout and I would park myself in front of our tiny little box TV, bunny ears and all, and marvel at the beautiful gowns. Let me make it clear that I had no aspirations of becoming a beauty queen myself, but I just adored shiny, beautiful things. Somethings never change, I suppose.

So you could imagine my delight when one of my best friends, who is now Co-Director of the Miss Philadelphia pageant (mama is OH so proud), asked me to volunteer at the 94th annual Miss Philadelphia pageant this past Saturday. Now, because of movies like Miss Congeniality and horrific reality shows detailing the lives of actual beauty queens, you immediately think big hair, huge egos, and of course, world peace. Naturally I was terrified that an underfed beauty queen high on Aqua Net would verbally abuse me to get her an Evian spritzer or something.

But I have to say, I was pleasantly surprised. No tantrums. No crazy stage moms. No freak outs. No praying in the corner and overly thanking Jesus. No Vaseline on the teeth (I mean maybe, I wasn’t like all up in their bidniss when they were getting ready). These ladies were the real deal. And I gotta say, oh so refreshing. I was expecting to see Barbie Doll clones that were so beautiful and perfect, that you couldn’t look at them directly or your face would melt off. Instead you saw real women of all sizes, colors, personalities. Aspiring doctors, Master degree holders, all talented and lovely in their own way.

These girls defined “beauty queen” in a modern way … the way beauty SHOULD be defined. Each one, especially the contestants for outstanding teen, which made me feel really bad about myself for not having my shit together like these ladies do at such a young age. And everyone was so calm and nice, even under all the pressure. It was almost scary. For me, the idea of prancing on a stage in front of hundreds of people in a God damn bikini as they judged me would make me curl into the fetal position and cry for my mommy. Yet these girls walked around waiting to get their hair and makeup did, treating everyone they came across with respect like, “meh … all in a day.”

It takes balls to be a beauty queen, let me tell you. While I don’t fully agree with pageants and find them to be a little dated, these girls were educated, smart, and just there to better themselves and the community they adore so much. If that meant strutting their stuff in four inch heels (clear heels sometimes, which I was told is a “pageant thing”) and a bikini in order to get that chance, well, so be it. And yeah … the crown. The crown is rad. What lady wouldn’t want to wear a crown, for crying out loud. Hell, I did. Oh yeah, I tried that shit on before the show. It was glorious.

I want to thank the Miss Philadelphia Organization for welcoming me into their world for one day and getting to experience the beauty queen lifestyle. It was lovely meeting all the past queens, as well as the ones participating. Especially our reigning Miss Philadelphia, Julia Rae, who isn’t just straight up talented and gorgeous, but such a sweet heart. Her state of zen before the show was mind blowing. Again … I would be crying for my mommy. So congrats to all the participants. I was happy to eat all the carbs for you back stage so you didn’t feel the need to. You’re welcome, ladies, you’re welcome.

Thanks, Jack Frost!

Fab-You-Bliss-Photos-by-Sarah-Beth-Winter-Fashion-Shoot-09I remember during a heatwave last summer, dripping sweat to the point where my entire dress was soaked … (hey, like that visual? RAR), and saying to myself, “self, you are to NEVER COMPLAIN WHEN IT GETS BITTERLY COLD OUT! NEVER!” That is how much I detested the heat and the sweaty mess I had become. And you know what? So far so good. It has been cold as balls and I haven’t complained once. And complaining to my cat doesn’t count. So there.

But besides my ears feeling like they are about to fall off every damn day (that doesn’t count as a complaint), and wanting to set fire to my Northface parka since I’ve over worn that shit to death (still not complaining), there is one positive that comes out of suffering from the bitterly cold temps … wait for it … WAIT … FOR … IT:

I don’t shop when it’s cold. Literally. Never. Strictly because it is too cold to walk anywhere. To make this clear, I’ve had an Ulta gift card burning a hole in my purse for the past month and a half and haven’t even had a single urge to walk the five blocks to use it, because I’m afraid my face will freeze and fall off.

While I keep yawning at my wardrobe, and wishing I wasn’t such a wimp when it comes to these below freezing temps, I gotta say, it has pushed me to be a little more creative with my clothing. Under the normal conditions of boredom, I would absolutely walk my ass to one of my favorite stores and buy some outfit I kind of like, just for the sole purpose of spicing things up. And quite frankly, that just isn’t a reason to buy shit, am I right?

Instead, I’ve decided to go back to my high school days when I used to play with my clothes for HOURS the night before. My room would look like a bomb hit it by the time I would go to bed. But after hours of trying things on and contemplation, I would have my look set and ready to go. This regiment went out the window once I went to college and realized, “hey self, just pulling things out of your closet the minute you see them and throwing them on your body means you get the sleep longer.” Hence why I no longer do this.

But because I’m a wuss, I’m now taking it back to 2005 (yes, I graduated high school in 2005). And you know what? I’m pulling some really creative shit out of my ass. Things that I was once bored with have a new light to them. Or things I once thought I was crazytown for buying, now make sense.

What I’m saying is, thank you cold, freezing, unbearable weather that makes my legs go numb. Without you I would be throwing money away on “ehh” clothing that I don’t need, and instead, you have pushed me to become way more intimate with my closet, something that has definitely been neglected. Hell, you’re better than therapy.

So if you find yourself shaking your fist at the cold and wishing you could strut down the street in a little maxi dress with myriads of shopping bags in your hands, chill out. Go become one with your closet. And you know what? You’ll have way more money to throw into your spring/summer looks. Do I see a style revamp on the horizon!? Hmmmmm!?!

Buy Yourself Something Wednesdays


Photo credit:

I’ve been on this kick recently where I’m all about buying myself gifts. If I fancy something, if I see an accessory or a piece of clothing winking at me from across the store, I immediately buy it a drink and take it home.

Some might say these are tell-tale signs of a “shopaholic” and that I will end up on the next episode of hoarders for sure, as my myriad of cats nest on top of a tower of shoe boxes. But alas, I am still rather cheap, and you will, probably, never see me buying out Bergdorfs. But a little reasonably priced “happy happy,” as my family likes to call it, does the body good. And it doesn’t have to be clothing-related. It can be a book, a class, an activity. Anything that makes that dark soul of yours shine.

Sure, it isn’t pay day (I mean, if it is for you, tip of that cap), and sure it isn’t Friday, or the weekend, or a holiday, or your birthday (again, if it is, happy birthday and such). But for most of us it is just fucking Wednesday. Yawn, yawn and … oh yeah … yawn.

So I say, go buy yourself something pretty. Again, don’t max out your credit cards to buy that Chanel handbag you’ve been drooling over since age 5 (seriously don’t). Not what I’m saying what-so-ever. It’s called a “happy happy” … not a “holy shit I just maxed out my credit cards to make myself smile.” If that happened, seek medical treatment immediately.

In all seriousness, go for a stroll in this freezing cold hell we’ve been suffering through, and treat yo self, as clique and overused as that statement is.

And, for inspiration purposes only, here are some suggestions on some things to make you smile:

Sondra Roberts clutch


ASOS plain cape

*Good for strolls on Saturday or snuggling with your cat with a glass of wine


Sequinned Short Jacket


Drawstring Shoulder Bag


Smak Parlour Bling

*Yes, that’s a ring


A Good Book

*I just found out some of the most classic novels are available on Amazon for less than $2. Shipping costs more. Indulge in those books you loathed reading in high school.


Aoki Boutique – Mermaid Sequin Skirt


Dr. Jart Charcoal Mask


The Real Story Of Having Curly Hair

sarah-jessica-parker-hair-curly-short-08When I tell people I have curly hair, their jaws usually drop to the ground, or they call me a dirty liar. But the truth of that matter is, I have mad curly, thick hair. And it hasn’t seen the light of day for almost a decade, because I have dedicated my life to learning all the techniques for making it as straight as possible, so people don’t have the slightest idea that my hair is curly. Because when my hair is curly, I get murderous rage. Don’t ask me why, I just do.

You can then understand my disdain for the Dove commercial giving big ups to curly hair. It’s not like I have a phobia of curly hair or anything, or want to throw things at people who have said curly hair. The commercial just fails miserably at depicting a “real” girl with curly hair. For example, I want to say 85.7% of people who have curly hair, don’t have curls that look like this:


Ads like these used to drive me mad as a teenager. I would make my mom buy me all of these ridiculous hair products that showed models having these tame, beautiful curls that made it look like you could do anything with them. I was desperate since when I would let my hair curl, I would loose about 40% of the length and end up having this massive bush of frizzy chaos to deal with that barely went into an attractive looking bun.

Whenever I would get my hair cut, I would have my hair dresser make my hair “Asian straight,” (his words, not mine) and it would last for about a week. It took him 2 1/2 hours to do it, and 2 assistants to help, but he made all my hair dreams come true. During said week, I would pretend I was Britney Spears, flipping my hair around and around. I would try different hair styles, actually getting to enjoy butterfly clips and not have them get lost in the jungle of my hair (can you tell it was the early 2000’s?) My hair would literally be a grease slick until my mom would be like, “hey, dirt ball, maybe it’s time to let it go.”

Sigh … but the girls with straight hair. The ones who would “kill for a little bend.” The ones who can literally do anything to their hair from long, luxurious pony tails, blunt bobs, BANGS, for Christ Sake, BANGS! And my favorite, being able to sleep on it, wake up, run a brush through it, and be done with the hair conversation for the day. You know what happens when you try to wear your hair curly two days straight without washing it? THIS:


I want to applaud Dove for putting a campaign out there that allows women to embrace their beauty. I really do, because, as a lady, I believe that is the most important thing. But if MTV were to make a “True Life: I have curly hair,” episode, I wouldn’t suggest they reference Dove, as I just don’t feel like they are doing the whole thing justice.


Believe In Your Own BS

beyonce-new-album-2013-video-flawlessLast night I found myself listening to Beyonce. Now prepare to throw rotten fruit at me when I say, I’m not the biggest Bey fan. I like her husband better, personally (HOVA!). And it isn’t because her songs aren’t catchy, and yes, you will absolutely see me backin’ it up to Drunkin’ Love, for sure. I just think her catchphrases linger around far too much and make me loathe the people that walk this Earth saying, “Surfboard,” in a strange voice and don’t happen to be in the ocean nor did they fill their tub up half way. Just sayin’.

But I found myself YouTubing the video for “Flawless,” last night because I needed a pick me up. Sometimes, when you’re feeling low and beaten down, all you need is a cocky, strong-ass bitch to pull you out of it. And when Cher wasn’t doing it for me, I turned to Beyonce.

God damn, God damn, God DAMN (see catchphrases, now I’m doing it) is that song crazy. Apart of me wants to stop her mid-strut and be like, “whoa whoa whoa, too big for your britches much?” And then another part of me wants to go all 90’s grunge, wear four inch stilettos, Merlot lips, and stand in the middle of a bunch of bad ass stylish ladies and say, “yeah bitch, I DO look so good tonight, thank you for reminding me, Bey. UP TOP :::high five” (Now do we think Beyonce gives high fives? I feel like that’s a no.)

I know this song is SO 2014, but it made me think about a little something called believing your own bullshit. I’m almost positive that Beyonce, once in a blue moon, stops herself during the day and goes, “holy fuck, I did NOT wake up like this,” as a team of professionals make her look PhotoShop chic. Now my friends will tell you, if they ever happen to drop me a compliment, “you look so thin,” “you’re worth more than that nonsense,” “wow, that outfit looks great,” I will more than likely thank them, but say, “bitch, please.” Because I, sadly, don’t believe my own bullshit. And that is a fatal flaw of mine.

Beyonce walks this Earth like she owns the damn place because she believes it. Oprah has a following of minions that would probably eat dirt if she put it on her “Favorite Things” list and labeled it “organic,” because she MAKES them believe her bullshit. Sure, we all have days, like I did last night, where we just want to crawl into bed and say, “you know what, you win, I’m out.” But no. Here and there, we deserve to boost about ourselves and stand up and say, “hell YES I look amazing today,” and “NO sadly … I’m not an ugly bitch, but thanks for thinking of me.”

True, I do think Beyonce is a little cocky. But hell, nowadays to sell your own personal brand (which ps. we all have, whether you like it or not) we need to do it with a little pizzazz (that word just isn’t used enough). And in order to do that, we need to believe our own bullshit. You think Pepsi sits in a corner like a meek little mouse and just prays to Jesus big bad Coke won’t smack the shit out of them? No. They get pre-K. Fed Britney Spears to dance half naked on a commercial during the Super Bowl chugging their beverage (still my all-time fave Pepsi commercial). Let’s pay homage shall we?

tumblr_mp3zz9fhyi1s1z34ho1_500What I’m saying is, it’s okay to own up to the things that make you great, whether you’re an amazing athlete. Have a career that is booming out of control. Or just find yourself to be a genuinely nice human being who cares for the people around them immensely.

I’m very lucky to have people in my life who remind me daily to believe my own bullshit (even though it isn’t bullshit, but you know what I mean). The shit you’re afraid to say because you think people will see you as a cocky hot mess. Well I say, do it once a week. And I’m here to say, wind blowing in my hair, eyes peering from side-to-side, in a sparkly one-piece suit, Beyonce-style, own yours, too.

Here goes: I was voted the third best blogger, and #1 fashion blogger in Philadelphia. :::drops mic:::

Your turn.


What To Wear Whilst Meeting Mr. Grey

CaptureOkay, as a writer and a huge nerdy fan of so many brilliant writers of the past, I hate to admit this. Really I do. But … I read all three Fifty Shades of Grey books. Sigh.

They were like crack. You knew they were bad books, I mean they were littered with grammatical errors. But you couldn’t help but gab to your girlfriends about the plot and the crazy shit that happened, like what went down with Christian and Anastasia in the bathroom scene (if you read it YOU know what I’m talking about … mmm hmm).

I remember when the Sex and the City movie came out. Sitting in a movie theater filled to the brim with straight up estrogen, and that one lonely dude whose idiot girlfriend dragged him there. Women put on their finest stilettos to pay homage to the queen of all fashionistas, Carrie Bradshaw, over-sized flowers and all. If we could have been sipping cosmos, we would have.

So it makes me think, what in holy hell will women wear to see Fifty Shades? Because this is a “see it with your ladies” kind of movie ONLY. If you see it with anyone else, you’re a damn fool. I hate the fact my mother even KNOWS I read the books, for Christ’s sake.

I mean, Anastasia was a pretty vanilla, Converse-wearing, boring chick until Christian threw some Manolos and really expensive lingerie at her. And Christian basically wore the same uber expensive suit day-in and day-out … unless he was in his “play room” (rar). So you can’t really have a Rocky Horror Picture Show moment and dress as your favorite character. Unless your favorite character is the third star in the movie, S&M.

I’m going to see the movie Friday with my other intelligent girlfriends who foolishly read the books and used one another as a safe place to discuss them endlessly. And a part of me wants to wear all leather just for funsies. I mean edgier looks are quite in-style. For example I walked into Zara this weekend thinking the image below was a necklace, and turns out it was belt. But nowadays, who can tell? If that doesn’t scream “I’m a freak-a-leek” (remember that song) I don’t know WHAT does.


Listen, I haven’t let myself read one review on the movie, because I know for a fact it is going to suck, and I want the suck to be a surprise. Henceforth why my friends and I will be indulging in copious amounts of cocktails beforehand in hopes it will make the movie spectacular. And unlike the Sex and the City movie, we may bring flasks. And who knows, maybe I’ll bring some fake whips just for funsies. They sell fake whips at Five Below, right?

Get Choo Smize On


Photo credit:

A co-worker recently told me I look like I want to cut someone, compared to another girl we work with whose “eyes seem to smile.” To which I wanted to put my hands on my hips and say, “HEY!” but then when I REALLY thought about it said, “meh, you’re probably right.”

Apparently there is this thing called “smizing” or “smiling with your eyes,” that the model turned model mentor turned talk show host turned (what the hell is she up to now? Anyone know?) Tyra Banks coined in her TV show, America’s Next Top Model. I only caught the first two seasons out of, what, the 95th season that is currently running? So hence this term being so very foreign to me.

When he alerted me to the fact that my face had murderous rage for no reason (I was actually in a chipper mood that day), even though I knew he was right, I wanted to adjust my eyes to see if this “smizing” thing could work for me. But, alas, turns out I ended up looking more like a serial killer than ever. Apparently making your eyes wider and batting your eye lashes is SUPER creepy.

But did you know, there is an app for that?! WHAT?! :::mind blown::: And no I didn’t dare download that crap to my phone. In fact there is a God damn WikiHow page with steps on how to smile with your eyes. BUT WAIT! If that wasn’t enough, there is a YouTube video of Tyra Banks showing her minions the difference between staring and SMIZING. It’s insanely weird, I suggest you click the link and watch it immediately.

After much research on the topic (not really), I found that the difference between staring and “smizing” involves an ever so slight head tilt. Yep. That’s it, kids. And when I did this, I STILL looked like I wanted to straight up stab someone … probably more than ever.

Look, when I’m staring at the computer, walking down the street, doing anything that involves thinking about what I’m doing, bitch I’m in the damn zone. Nobody got time to smize when they are in the zone, am I right? I actually took the time to work on my smize (behold the creepiness of my eyes below). Oh yeah. I did. I found out a couple of things:

1. (and I NEVER say this about anything concerning myself) I have really amazing eye lashes. Thanks parents for this one aspect of myself I can raise the roof about.

2. I hate taking selfies. Like really hate it. I wanted to punt my phone.

3. Smizing is complete and utter nonsense. If you’re happy and you know it clap your damn hands. They don’t say in the song, “then your smile will surely show it,” for nothing. Stop making your eyes do something they physically can’t do. Eyes. Can’t. Smile. Freaks.

So for all you poor souls out there who look me in the eye and think I want to cut your ass, I don’t. Really. My eyes say murder but my soul says, “hey friend, come and give me a hug.” Unless you are a classless, rude, immature human being … then yes, my eyes do want to cut you. But I never would. I promise. Pinky swear, in fact.

Open Yourself Up To Menswear

annie-lennox-05I remember being little and watching SNL with my Nana (this was probably late 80’s/early 90’s) and watching Annie Lennox perform. She took the stage wearing a tuxedo for women, very casually worn, with her short male-like hair cut. My Nana, who I wouldn’t quite constitute as an old school square, scoffed at her look and expressed her violent distaste for her. “What is this? Women don’t wear tuxedos! What is WRONG with her and that short hair cut,” she exclaimed, making her dislike for the woman underlined and bold. At that moment I believe my love for menswear for women blossomed (sorry Nan).

I find tuxedos so romantic and lovely and secretly wish I would wake up one morning and see men wearing top hats, watch fobs, and … yes … monocles (I mean who doesn’t love a good monocle, am I right?!). But, it’s likely that this generation of men who find plaid shirts from J. Crew with jeans the end all be all of everything (not that there is anything wrong with that, I swear I’m not hating, calm yo selves) will ever throw back that far, so henceforth why I’m so pumped that the women-kind have grabbed the reigns once again.

What bothers me is that people think if a woman like Rhianna, who happened to rock the shit out of a menswear-inspired Maison Margiela suit at the Grammy’s last weekend, would wear such an ill-fitting garment simply because she is a hiding a pregnancy. Typical bullshit. Unless she really is preggo, then congrats?

But this trend is nothing new. The bad ass Katharine Hepburn was the queen of a good suit. She didn’t just wear it to make a statement, since it was frowned upon for women to wear such things back in the day (GASP!), but she redefined “sexy” in a new way for women. So much so that down the road the likes of Madonna adopted it (come on VOGUE, let cho body MOOOVE TO THE MUSIC … excuse me, dance break time).

700a9473005f34a82fa87302e13dd470And let’s not neglect Diane Keaton’s Annie Hall look. I mean, that shit was epic, tie and all. I unfortunately fell down the rabbit hole of wearing ties as belts back in the early 2000’s … but that is not a “menswear-inspired” trend any of us should EVER recreate, kids. Seriously. Don’t do it. Or what Avril Lavigne did. You know what? Let’s make a rule to never do anything Avril Lavigne did, kay?


Listen, I get it, menswear looks can be intimidating, especially if you’re the type of gal that lives on the more feminine side of life. And quite frankly what can’t Rhianna wear and not make it look out-of-this-world amazing? But I believe leaving some things to the imagination under perhaps an ill-fitting suit is just as sexy as a tight curve-accentuating Herve Leger dress.


It doesn’t mean you have to throw all femininity out the window, bitch please. Rock a sexy bright lip. Wear a blouse underneath your menswear blazer open (well not fully open … you know what I mean, keep it classy). Add a beautiful brooch to a lapel. Look to our sisters of fashion past to teach you the ways of menswear rocking properly. From me to you, it’s the new sexy.

And now … I will leave you with this so you can have your own dance party with your monocle. And if you don’t have one. GET ONE.


Single Shaming

CapturePreface: No I am not a bitter single lady who has to remind everyone that she is destined to cat lady-dom nor do I proudly walk this Earth doing the “Single Ladies” dance. I’m just speaking for the THOUSANDS of single people out there who want you, single shamers, to shut the fuck up.

Your co-workers do it. Your relatives do it. Hell, your friends probably do it. And the sad thing is, they probably have NO idea what they are doing. What they are doing is making you feel poorly about something you have no control over. Being single. Literally. None. Unless you whore yourself out on the street, which would just be ridiculous … and dangerous. Or let any idiot date you … which … no.

These people, the single shamers, are the ones who believe any cherish-able moment in life should be spent with a significant other. She’s that girlfriend of yours who only comes around when she isn’t in a relationship, and when a man finally falls for her she literally drops off the face of the planet (we all have one of those). They are the ones that ask inane questions or make obnoxious statements like:

1. He’s out there … don’t worry. He’ll find ya!
Proper response: I’m not playing dating hide and go-seek. Calm the fuck down.

2. Have you tried online dating?
Proper response: I would rather spend $19.99 a month on shiny things … or shots of vodka.

3. (When single shamers talk to one another:) Do you think she is sad because she’s the only one out of our group of friends that is single?
Proper Response: Yes. In my free time between knitting and brushing my 10 cats all I can fathom is how my life just will never amount to anything without a man at my side and how much better your lives are because of it.

4. I have the PERFECT guy to set you up with!
Proper response: I hate people.

5. Who is your Valentine this year missy?!
Proper response: My cat :::takes a victory sip:::.

And if this shit wasn’t bad enough, now Valentine’s Day is upon us and it is like everywhere you look you are being reminded that you are “alone.” Alone. What utter hogwash. “Poor little single person with no one to buy them anything from the aisle in Rite Aid that looks like Cupid vommited all over it.” I have no shame in my game, I will straight up buy myself a box of chocolates any time of year and eat that shit, single or in a relationship, Forrest Gump-style.

I decided Valentine’s Day was a bunch of hooey when I was 16 and my boyfriend gave me a stuffed dog with a heart in its mouth that said “I woof you.” Yeah. That happened. I didn’t swoon … well, I faked swooned out of courtesy for him, but in my head I was just like, “is this what people do? Really? What is the point?” And since then, I’ve just been beyond it.

Listen, love comes in different forms and is in random corners of your life, but one thing I’m absolutely sure about is a box of chocolates, flowers, a dog with a heart in its mouth that says “I woof you,” a reservation at a fancy restaurant one day a year, sure as fuck doesn’t mean love in ANY sense of the word. So thinking you aren’t loved because those things are happening for you Saturday is just straight up crazytown.

And to all you people who treat your single friends like they are the hunchback of Notre Dame sitting alone in their bell towers screaming, “DON’T LOOK AT ME, DON’T LOOK AT ME!” stop it. Seriously. These people are your friends, therefore tilting your head and going, “awwww no Valentine this year?!” makes them want to secretly judo chop you in the throat.

Single, in a relationship, swingers, I demand one thing from you on Saturday, and that is to show yourself some love by buying yourselves something shiny. That’s all.

Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra has spoken.

Wearing Heels To Your First Hockey Game

scrubs-my-nah-nah-nah-worst-athlete-thumbI don’t know if any of you are aware of this, but I hate sports. Always have, probably always will. My family keeps saying a dude who is a HUGE sports fan will come and “sweep me off my feet” and all of a sudden I’ll be wearing his favorite sports jersey, but not up in here. NOT … up in here. So all of you super fan suitors out there, sorry, it just ain’t going to happen.

With that being said, when the Philadelphia Flyers contacted me and asked if I would like to attend a game my knee jerk reaction was, HELL. NO. I write about style, for Christs sake. But then I thought, hey, I’m not one of those girls that are just like, “ew sports … like :::hair twirl::: let’s go to the mall,” I like opening myself up to new experiences.

So I grabbed my friend Kim, who happens to be a huge fan, and decided why the hell not? But what do you wear as an absolute non-fan? I refused to run to Dicks Sporting Goods and buy out the hockey section, but wanted to support the team for fear of getting my ass kicked. Lucky enough for me the Flyers colors are black and orange, and my wardrobe is 99.6% black, so I wore black skinnies, a black top, statement necklace and black booties. Black on black on black.

The minute Kim picked me up she exclaimed, “are you wearing HEELS?!” Well … yes, I was. But they were booties and it was a 2-inch block heel, which I don’t consider a “heel,” per say. “You are going to get laughed out of the game!” she said, continuing to shame me. She also let me know that when she sees ladies wearing heels to any sporting event, she immediately wants to throw stuff at them. Fantastic. I was fucked, clearly. (Side bar: I later found out she was wearing a pencil skirt and button down to the game. Pencil. Skirt. Hello?!)

I walked into the game in anticipation of angry Flyers fans running towards me holding flaming sticks and pitch forks screaming, “SHE’S NOT A REAL FAN, AND SHE’S WEARING HEELS, GET HER!” but it didn’t happen. Once I got comfortable I asked, “so where is the stand that serves Chardonnay,” in a joking, well not really joking, manner, and instead got handed a beer in a plastic sippy cup with a straw. A straw.

The good news is, no one paid attention to what I was wearing. Everyone kind of did their own thing. You had the super fans in Flyers gear, jeans and boots, the girls who were clearly there on a date with a boy, looking awkward AND wearing heels (see, Kim, I wasn’t the only one), aaaand then there were the “ice girls” in electric orange crop tops and tight ass black pants who “cleaned the ice” (I mean …). But don’t worry, us ladies got to look at the “ice gents” in oversized electric orange pullovers and carpenter jeans “cleaning the ice” yeeeeaaaaah … hawt.

I DID learn a valuable lesson though, kids. Crowd around, I want all of you to hear this. Because of course after the game we went for drinks at Xfinity Live, a place I like to refer to as “not my scene.” Never. Ever. NEVER EVER EVER EVER, ride a mechanic bull whilst wearing a crop top. I don’t care how many vodka sodas you’ve had. It’s not sexy. It’s not cute. It doesn’t bring the boys to the yard. Just don’t do it. Promise?

Ps. Big thanks to the Philadelphia Flyers for an amazing first experience. I got to see men getting their nose broken LIVE … what gets better than THAT?!

Got 99 Problems, But A Product Ain’t One

CaptureI love products. I love samples. I love samples of products, I mean who doesn’t?! They are just so adorable I want to pick them up and exclaim, “HI MEEM!” (which if any of you know me is my exclamation when I see something cute … dogs, cats, boys, anything). And, you know, it’s great to try out a product before pulling the trigger and buying a full bottle, am I right?

That is why I originally adored the concept of Birch Box. The opportunity to get a bunch of sample products delivered to you in a box based off of a profile you made of yourself? I was head over heels from the packaging and the cute way they announce your name on the box, “the dazzling Kate Concannon,” to the little extras they would throw in. Swoon.

Until one day I looked at my makeup table and realized, “holy shit, I’m about to get straight up swallowed by products.” They were ev-er-y-where. Overflowing out of my makeup drawer, falling off the side of my table, balancing on top of one another. I mean everywhere I looked, there they were (the pictures in this post are an actual representation). And the worst part? I probably had only tried 5% of them. So they just sat there like little multiplying minions all, “Try me! Try me! Me next! Me next!”

Never once really have I tried a product from my Birch Box and had to have it. Actually, I lied, I gave an anti-aging serum to my mom, SHE loved it, went to buy it for her for Christmas and realized it was like $100 for a thimble of the stuff. Yeah. No. But besides that, the sample size is good enough for me. When I get the urge to do a face mask, it is awesome that I can go to my makeup table and choose from 15 different samples. I just wish I didn’t have 15 of them, and then an extra 5 exfoliators to follow suit.

And it doesn’t help that I’m cheap. So when I’m at a makeup counter, or like that time I went to Ulta and they hooked me up with literally a bag full of a samples, I just cannot say no. I’m too busy doing a happy dance and Instagramming my goodies. But instead of finding the ones I like, or gifting away the ones I don’t want or know I won’t use, I just end up hoarding them until my makeup table is more like a sanctuary to tiny bottles of shit that were never opened.

I need to go to samples anonymous, and as much as I love getting that awesome box each month (which happens to come at the most opportune times … during a mental break down, happen to be in an extra stabby mood), I think Birch Box and I have to part ways for a bit. I’m not hating on you, Birch Box, because you have brought me so much joy. But alas, I think I need to become one with the samples I already have, and hell, who knows, maybe pick up a new product I like. I mean isn’t that what it is all about?

For the person who needs a new beauty regime or just needs a little spice to their look, definitely dive into Birch Box. But if you are a closet makeup/sample hoarder, stay away. Far away. And in fact join me at Samples Anonymous. I’ll be serving tiny bottles of Diet Coke and gummy bears and we can talk about feelings.

This isn’t even half of it …


My Tale Of The Cursed Blouse


Photo credit:

I’m incredibly superstitious. Especially when it comes to the things I put on my body. I mean, for example, a top you wear when you get dumped, no matter how cute it is, will forever be known as the top you got dumped in and wiped your snot on the sleeve after hysterically crying. Or that necklace you cherish, but every time you wear it, you end up getting too drunk and throwing random shit at people (not that this happens to me :::shifty eyes:::.

Take my amazing sheer navy blue blouse I scored at Forever 21 like a year and half ago. I file this top under what I like to call “F21 Couture,” as you REALLY couldn’t tell it was from F21 unless you got all up in the shotty stitching job. And for this reason, I take the time and money to get it dry cleaned (a little tip from me to you, get your cheaper pieces dry cleaned, it will make them last longer). I adore this top. Yet, every time I wear it, every SINGLE time, I have the worse day/night ever. Literally, cringe-worthy, cry yourself to sleep shit.

The weird thing is, I have numerous pieces that I’m actually scared to wear for fear I will be doomed to endure a bad day … which leads me to think … “umm do I need a shrink?” But in an effort to reduce my crazy and prove myself wrong, I whipped out the navy blue sheer top last weekend and decided, why the hell not?! I have all these great pieces that just hang in my closet, all lonesome, just because I’m scared of them (the more I think about it the more I DO indeed think I need a shrink). But I digress.

So I put the navy blue sheer blouse on, bravely, and went about my day, thinking how insane I was for neglecting this awesome top. I went shopping. Treated myself to cocktails. Got my nails did (not in that exact order). But guess what ended up happening? Oh yeah. A terrible, horrible, no good, VERY bad night appeared out of nowhere. As if it grabbed me by the back of my hair and ripped out my weave. I’ll save you the petty details, but I ended having a full blown anxiety in a bar and ended up crying my way home that evening.

With all of that being said, that pretty little navy sheer blouse is getting straight up donated. I hate the idea of throwing away a perfectly good top when there are people out there who need it. And I HOPE it won’t be like the VHS tape in the movie the Ring bringing other people terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days when they wear it, but alas :::sigh:::, it is the risk I will have to take.

So be gone, bad juju blouse, be gone.

A Tour Of My Boudoir

catNever in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would become the lady who prefers going to Home Goods over H&M, but alas, it has happened. Simply because I find it extremely important to have a clean, inspirational, relaxing place to come home to. And I’m not talking about your whole entire apartment, no, for me, it is my bedroom. It is like there are bombs going off outside, and zombies running lose, but the minute you step into this oasis, it’s like you’re straight chillin’ on the beach.

Now I will be the first one to say “Feng Shui” is a bunch of hogwash. I didn’t even know how to spell it, I had to Google it (true story). It was only when the Gods of Feng Shui bitch slapped me that I cowered in the corner and said, “alright, alright I get it!”

There’s this thing called “energy in a room” or as the Feng Shui people call it, “chi energy.” Apparently it is like the worst thing you could possibly do for your life to block windows, because that is how the chi energy enters and exits. But me, being that asshole who makes decisions strictly on what looks pretty, moved into my home a few years ago and put my rolling rack of clothes against a perfectly good window. Long story short, my “chi” was a hot mess that year, until I decided to let a little Feng Shui into my life because I was desperate. And you know what? It helped. It was so weird. I’m still kind of freaked out by it.

So after months of dealing with design hell like finding the perfect chair, having the leg snap off, being too lazy to go get it fixed, and subbing the leg in with old editions of W Magazine. Or finding the right side table, painting it, putting my typewriter on it and having the legs give out (that happened yesterday, by the way) it is complete. And I’m so in lerve with it, and obsessed with it, that I decided to give you all what you really wanted: A tour of my bedroom (I know you creepy bastards have been trying to get in there for months).

So if you’re feeling off or like everything is fucked up, or just need a quiet place to call your sanctuary, maybe read a little about Feng Shui. I’m not saying turn into a crazy person and start placing crystals all over your house, but opening up the chi … shit is that stuff good.

Preface: The reason why my cat is in a majority of the pics is because she clearly thought this was a photoshoot for herself. I mean …

The mirror to end all mirrors (no I wasn’t taking a selfie, I woke up like that … run if you can)

dresserShiny things … and a cross

braceletsYes, the chair is balancing on old W Magazines … I wasn’t kidding. But God dammit does it work well.

chairJust a little diddy from my book collection (e-books are for chumps)

booksI collect fashion mags like a freak

vogueWhere I make myself NOT look like a gargoyle

makeupMy Dad’s cowboy boots (you rarely saw him without these on)

bootsHUGE jewelry whore

necklacesIf you can’t tell, I believe the bar of my clothing rack may collapse soon

clothesThe holy grail of my shoe collection

shoeshelfWhere I wrote this post and every other one … and sleep occasionally

bedCurrent reading situation


Working Out Terrifies Me

micael_sembello_maniac_remix_1983_the80sman_2As I walked home from the train this evening, I was texting with one of my best friends about how desperately we wished drinking wine and eating copious amounts of carbs could give us abs. File that under wishing for a money tree in my backyard, and Justin Timberlake to leave that hag of a wife of his for me.

I read an article this week that said if you were one of those millions and trillions of people who made a resolution to “hit the gym” every day in 2015, you probably fall of the wagon around this time. Which to me is perfect, because A. I loathe gyms, we have discussed this. If not, please refer to my previous posts about how I loathe gyms. B. I loathe crowds. And C. Like to do things on my own accord. So bye bye, people with empty resolutions, I just got me a Class Pass subscription. What, what!

Class Pass? Class Pass?! What is Class Pass you ask? Well … it is for people like me who hate the idea of going to a gym and running on something called an “elliptical,” counting down the minutes until I can stop, trying not to make eye contact with the fools around me waiting for the machine to open up, who rather have different class options that come with a trained professional to tell me EXACTLY how to get side abs.

Here’s the thing: I haven’t worked out in a while. Like a really long while. Like the thought hasn’t crossed my mind. I think taking the stairs to the train platform instead of the escalator is exercise (not to mention I’m DEATHLY afraid of escalators … but that is a WHOLE different story). When it comes to going to a yoga class or drinking a bottle of wine and eating pub mix on my couch with my cat, what do you think wins? It is negative below outside people. screw the fitness factor.

I also lack a “fitness wardrobe.” I have a pair of cheetah print Reeboks, a pair of pink and white leather Reeboks (which are SO much cooler than they sound, they are vintage for Christ’s sake), and a pair of navy polka-dotted Keds. All I own are ratty t-shirts from different organizations I’ve been apart of that I hate, but keep for nostalgic purposes, and I have one pair of “yoga pants” from H&M that are like 10 years old, but love them too much to throw away (side bar: I don’t even think they are yoga pants, but it will be the closet thing I will ever own to them as I hate the idea of giving Lululemon any of my hard earned money). Which means I will be wearing my fancy stretch pants that I try to pull off as actual pants in real life to work out in.

I’m hopeless. I’m a mess. I hate having my hair in a pony tail. And I hate sweating. But God dammit, I want to not walk out of the shower naked and not have my eyes burn when I look in the mirror (I mean it’s not THAT bad … well … maybe … I mean who looks at themselves in the mirror naked, gross … :::shifty eyes:::).

It’s going to suck, this Class Pass thing, truly, it’s going to suck. I mean sure, basically having a golden ticket to any and all workout studios from pilates to rowing (Ps. I am SO pumped to try a rowing machine, but I’m pretty sure my arms will fall off), is a beautiful thing. And I’m quietly excited about it.

So I’m here to admit, I’m terrified of working out. I’m unprepared, and a huge wuss, and I like to look at myself as a delicate flower. Since my body is so drastically out of shape, I’m scared I won’t be able to walk the next day like an old lady, or keep up with the people who have already acquired side abs in class, and get laughed off the studio floor (some elementary school problems never seem to leave us, huh).

But fuck it, I’m up for the challenge. Class Pass, bring it. If you’re scared, too, it’s okay to admit it. You can sit with me in the back of the class and giggle and be all, “what the hell is THAT pose and will I break my vagina doing it?!” as we sit there in our non-workout pants and insanely cute sneakers that are absolutely not for workout purposes.

Side bar: Thanks to the awesome people over at Class Pass Philly for giving me this amazing opportunity to obtain side abs … even if I’m scared shitless.


Screw Snow, My Mind Is In Paris


Photo credit:

As much as I love the non-humid, great hair days, the reason to stay in bed or on your couch and snuggle, and the perfect excuse to not have to exist with the general population … fuck this winter, pardon my French.

You know what? I’m not even going to waste your time discussing how “snowmaggedon” didn’t show its face, because if you are anything like me, you are so exhausted of people bitching and complaining and dissecting the weather that all you want to do is shove two thick down pillows over your ears to drown out the sorrow.

And as I was trying not to slip and die on my way to the train, and thinking about the snow day that could have been, I decided, enough! Enough bitching. Enough complaining. Why not transport myself to a better place, with better people, and better clothing, and better champagne? Oh yeah … I’m talking  Spring 2015 Couture Fashion Week.

If these images below don’t get your engine revved for spring, then you are probably dead … or soulless … either or. It’s truly so mystical and dreamy and … well … anything goes. What in life gets better? I’m beyond in to it. So fuck snow, or lack their off, fuck the frigid temps … my mind is in Paris, if you need me or it.













Aura Tout Vu

Aura Tout Vu

AuraToutVu2(All photos from

The Mani Cam’s Death Rattle

CaptureRecently, I’ve expressed my disdain for E! News covering red carpets. Seriously, if I were a movie star, I would politely try and not make eye contact with Guiliana Rancic or Ryan Seacrest whilst making my way into the theater. “Oh hey, E! News … oh sugar, I have to take this phone call, BRB :::violently runs away:::”

So you can understand why I want to kiss Jennifer Aniston’s Aveeno-smooth skin for refusing to participate in dancing her two fingers down the “mani cam red carpet.” Seriously bitch, slow clap for you. I don’t know what it is about her lately, but she added some Tabasco sauce to that vanilla exterior of hers.

The mani cam is pointless. And tacky. And I hate it (bonus points if you recognize that quote). First of all, they should call it the “bling cam,” (ps. E! News, if you steal this idea you will feel my wrath), because all they EVER comment on is the jewels the celebs are rocking on their fingers and wrists. “So tell us who made that FANTASTIC ring!” and “Oh look! Your nails look like little tuxedos! How adorbs! EEEEEEE! :::ass kissing, ass kissing, and more, ass kissing:::” are the only comments you will hear.

Never once will a celeb be like, “yeah I’m wearing OPI Lincoln Park After dark in gel, with a matching OPI top coat.” Isn’t the red carpet for advertising? Don’t designers throw gorgeous dresses at celebs so they can be like, “Hi, stupid entertainment news person interviewing me, I’m wearing Zak Posen.” And that is when millions of viewers fall in love with Zak Posen and start selling their souls and putting themselves in massive debt to buy his shit in order to look like their favorite movie star. Yep. That is how it works, people.

So tell me, if this mani cam exists, why don’t any celebs talk about the nail color they are wearing or who did their nails, or what salon they went to, or what style their nails are. Round, square, cat-like? Are they fake? Yeah. Think about it. As a nail artist, hell yes I would want a celeb to drop my name to Seacrest. And as an awesome nail polish company that I happen to be obsessed with, OPI (hey boo, call me), I would ABSOLUTELY want a celeb to wear my latest line of color and name drop that shit on the red carpet. But alas, it doesn’t happen. Because turns out entertainment reporters and myself have something in common. We both get VERY distracted by shiny things.

So good for celebs, like Jennifer Aniston, for finally putting their stiletto down and politely declining to “DANCE, MONKEY, DANCE” like E! News so desperately wants them to. No one cares that you decided to get a french manicure to match your dress. Yawn. Seriously. Yawn.

Someone over at E! News, kindly take a hammer to that thing and put it out of its misery, and go back to the drawing board. Maybe let’s focus on why the actors are there … you know … that film they starred in and are nominated for that costs a hell of a lot money to make?

And if no one has the balls to take a hammer said mani cam, I will be more than obliged to fly to L.A. and do it myself. Just call a sister up.


Sweatpants Are For Winners

sweatychicAn article just came out stating that Philadelphians are prone to wearing sweatpants more than any other state. Apparently these numbers were acquired by looking into sweatpant sales. Yeah. Because we don’t have more pressing matters to look into, let’s DEFINITELY check out the sweatpant market. It’s really important, you guys, you don’t even know.

The thing about sweatpants is people immediately think of a slob, or a recently heart broken chick eating Ben and Jerry’s on her couch, or the most unattractive suitor on the planet, or old people wearing matching sweatsuits, or people who truly just gave up on life. Or in Regina George’s case, “sweatpants are all that fits me right now.”

But you know what, not really the case, people, not really the case. Sweatpants will for forever and always rule. And if you don’t own at least five pairs, you’re a moron. After a long day, I may look all chic and put together, but God dammit the minute I step into my house, I turn into the biggest sweatpant rocking, stain covered, hair in messy bun hot mess you could ever imagine. You know how Olivia Pope goes home after a long day and puts on her white jammies and sips red wine all quaffed and shit? Yeah. No. Not real life.

But sweatpants aren’t just for lazy people and slackers, my friends. Check it, sweats are now super fashionable and totally acceptable to wear with heels. Because, you know, Rhianna said so. And no, I’m not talking about sweats you bought at Walmart pairing them with your favorite Loubs. Come on.


But there is sweatpant etiquette to follow. People used to make fun of me in high school and college because I rarely wore sweats out in public, or even to class. Well, not counting when I fell down the Juicy Couture velour sweatsuit rabbit hole, but I mean who didn’t? It was the early 2000’s, give me a break.

Unless you are rocking a pair of fashion-forward sweats that cost more than $30 that you saw in a fashion mag, I say don’t wear them out in public. It is okay to have sweats for different occasions. Ones for when you eat too much, ones for when you’re sick, ones for just straight lounging all day (i.e. my cat pajamas), ones for when you want to take a fashion risk, ones for doing housework … I mean so on and so forth.

So hold your heads high, Philadelphians. It doesn’t mean you are slob kabobs. It just means you take risks with fashion and are comfortable people, which makes you rule at life. But I swear if I see any of you wearing $10 sweats to da club, I will smack you in public.


The New Evil: Showering

1960-PSYCHO-001As if we don’t have enough problems in this life, war, inequality, terrorism, disease, now all of a sudden showering every day is harmful to our health? Which leads me to tilt my head and quietly exclaim, “what the fuck?!”

I’m more of a “shower the night before” type of gal. But I, for the most part, minus a few lazy moments, shower every day. And mostly because I want to. For the love of God, I take public transportation. Especially in the summer months, the first thing I crave when I get home is to wash the filth from the general population off my body. Nothing like mixing your sweat with the left over sweat from some stranger who sat in the same seat before you, am I right?!

Listen, just because some hot shot doc all of a sudden felt the need to tell the world that by showering every day we are losing important bacteria and drying out our skin doesn’t mean much to me. Why do you think Sephora sells $200 bottles of moisturizer in a thimble? Dry skin is curable, people. Very curable. There are about 1,001 solutions to dry skin. And good bacteria? Please. By “good bacteria” do you mean the strands of new viruses that are probably being organically bred on the seats, handles, and doors of all train cars? And let’s not forget the petri dish called your office.

Showering is relaxing to me. I get in, wash off the day, clear my head, get out, moisturize, and feel so fresh and so clean clean. Nothing is better. Well, not true, when I have to shave my legs, that showering experience isn’t so grand.

What is even more laughable is that the solution to only showering every three days, which apparently is the appropriate amount to shower, is wiping yourself down in areas that may start to “smell.” Umm, seriously? Am I high right now? Is this real life? Because the idea of giving myself a sponge bath in front of a perfectly fine working shower makes my head want to explode. Jesus … the effort alone.

Direct quote, dermotologists recommend you wash the “the grossest parts of your body” with a washcloth. Kindly define “grossest parts of my body,” please. Because I don’t find wiping down my lady parts, which I assume would fall under the “grossest parts” category, and most importantly during that lovely “time of the month,” with a washcloth pleasant in any sense of the word. Bring on the cleansing of “good bacteria” any day.

What I’m saying is, shame on this doctor for instilling this idiotic fear in people. We have enough shit to worry about then alone getting in our showers to remove the stank of the day. Am I right? Listen, I’m not a clean freak or a “germaphobe,” and yes I believe exposing yourself to bacteria is a good thing as it helps your immune system, but when it comes to showering … well … I’ll leave you with this:


Buy Yourself Something – It’s Friday

parks-and-rec-treat-yourselI am notorious for lusting over things and never pulling the trigger to buy them. The words “cheap” and “queen of buyers remorse” have been thrown around whilst describing me.

Because I have such an issue taking the plunge and just buying the things I love and tweet and drool over, I decided that every now and then I will share them with you, my dear readers, in hopes that YOU will have the balls to pull the trigger, buy them, and enjoy thoroughly … like I should.

So behold, the shit you need to buy. Why? Because it is Friday and you deserve a treat after thing long ass week. Like longer than long. What is UP with that? Am I right?




A Life Without Mirrors

CaptureAs I got up this morning, feeling like I got 2 hours of sleep when in reality I got a solid 8, and desperately hating the fact that it was Wednesday, I starred at myself in the mirror hating even more that I had to make this :::waving hand in front of face::: look acceptable for human beings to see.

Then I thought about how different life would be without mirrors. I think I was inspired by the Dove Beauty commercial that challenged women to use Dove for 7 days without mirrors. Literally a team of dudes came in and removed all mirrors from their homes. During that week you see these women washing their faces, and instead of standing in front of a mirror picking apart every flaw on their body, they were just enjoying the feel or their skin. Kind of idiotically … but I mean without mirrors what else would you do, right?

Or maybe it was that I just watched Divergent for the first time and decided that I totally would be in abnegation because the idea of only getting only a certain amount of time to look in the mirror really excites me. Literally. The mirrors have timers. Why don’t I live in this world!?

Sure, mirrors are great for doing makeup and your hair. But they also are a trap for starring at yourself, and if you are anything like me, wishing so badly that things were different from your eyebrows that you wish looked like Cara Delevingne and hair follicles that look nothing like Kim Kardashians. I mean don’t you hate FaceTime for this reason? Because I do. Instead of connecting with friends and relatives across the country, I’m too busy trying to find an angle that doesn’t make me look like a gargoyle … duck facing through it all.

I wish I could honestly say I don’t check myself out in anything that gives off a reflection from televisions to train car windows, but I do. Simply because I want to ensure I am at my best self … and honestly who the fuck knows what that ACTUALLY means. Do I have anything in my teeth? Do I have an alfalfa hair sticking up? Do I look like Kate Moss yet? How about now? I mean have you ever looked at yourself in the window of a store, not thinking there were actual people inside, but in reality you know there are people inside shopping and looking at what a vain asshole you truly are. Yeah … join the club.

Dove Beauty has a point. When was the last time you looked in a mirror at your own reflection and said, “daaaaaaaaaaamn, bitch, I look good.” I mean … that is not what they are saying, but you get the drift. The honest answer to that is never. I never look in the mirror and internally give myself compliments.

So Dove, my answer to your question of #BeautyIs … being able to wake up in the morning, look at yourself in the mirror and say, “daaaaaaaaaaamn, bitch, I look good,” even if I resemble a gargoyle. It is about accepting the unacceptable. You is who you is, and there are places Sephora for enhancement purposes.

I challenge you, sexy reader, to avoid glaring at yourself in a mirror that is behind your friend in front of you who is trying to tell a story. To stop checking yourself out in anything with a reflection. And to give yourself a compliment once a day. Like today, my accessory game is on point. There. I said it. Now … your turn:


Wear Protection At Sample Sales

09981f45a262.previewI’ve never been a competitive person. I’ve never even been on an athletic team, and was only a cheerleader in middle school (shocking, I know, right? Not really … I just wanted to be Britney Spears) simply because there were no cuts. I don’t even like watching competitive sports on TV or shows like Survivor. Competing brings out an uber ugly side of people that horrifies me. Having people screaming and being insanely mean for the sake of “winning” doesn’t sound delightful, am I right?

As an adult, competition shows its ugly face in weird ways, not just on sporting fields or whatever the hell you call it. In the office, over men, and what I’m really here to talk about, at sample sales. Oh yes, cue the lightning bolts and scary music, kids.

You would think getting the opportunity to go to a sample sale would be music to my ears, but wrong, sir! You’re wrong! I’ve only attended one, and one was enough for me. It isn’t all tea and crumpets as women in white gloves casually review the merchandise at hand with classical music playing in the background. Oh no. Ladies, or lack their of, are there to bring home the gold, the most spectacular merchandise for the most spectacular price, and they will do anything and everything to make that happen.

These broads bring their A-game and have no qualms with taking a bitch down for some marked down Fendi. They mine as well be wearing protective gear, mouth guards and all, as throwing ‘bows, and not giving a shit for the sake of human kind is all acceptable on this fashion field.

Nothing makes me cringe more than seeing two women fighting in public. Scratch that. Two women fighting in public over clothing and accessories. And at sample sales, especially the big boys like Barneys and Urban Outfitters, the gloves are off to get the goods. Shoving, not saying “excuse me,” hair pulling, cursing, grabbing merchandise out of bins like tomorrow an asteroid is about to strike and the only thing that will save their families is marked down hipster clothing, are all things you are more than likely to see.

Sure, the idea of getting couture for a quarter of the price makes my heart sing. It really does. But having to deal with women who throw their manners to the wind and will say anything and do anything for a good deal isn’t my bag. In fact, keep the bag. You win, crazy lady. No need to make me cry in order to rip the marked down Marc Jacobs out of my hand. Take it. Got enough problems, thanks.
I dare any of you sample sale jocks to take a look at yourself while you are preparing to give the girl eying up the same marked down Theory jacket as you a bloody nose and see how you look. I double dog dare ya.


Stop, No: Confessions Of A Mom Jeans Hater

Topshop_MomJeans_LightBlueLucky for me, I’ve never had a mom that had cringe-worthy style. Never once did I catch her in a Micky Mouse vest, different holiday themed garments that lit up, or, the worst of all, mom jeans.

So this past weekend, when I saw about a handful of good looking ladies in their 20’s painfully trying to revive the 90’s rocking said mom jeans at bars, it kind of made me scratch my head in confusion. Is this a thing? Are we doing this now? All it took was a simple Google search to answer my question. Type in “mom jeans” and you notice Urban Outfitters has a whole page dedicated to them for purchasing at a ridiculous price. And certain fashion-related websites are calling them a “breath of fresh air from the jeggings craze.” Uuhhhhhh …


People, why oh why are we rocking mom jeans? Seriously? Is it the elongated vagina look we are enjoying? Or perhaps it is the fact that we want our asses to look as horrific as humanly possible. Seriously, mom jeans give you 80’s ass. What is 80’s ass, you ask? Look at any music video/commercial/movie from the 1980’s and notice the ass … you’ll understand. Of course they will accentuate your tiny tiny little waist, but in return, you get pancake 80’s ass.

I get it, you’re sick of skinnies, and think bell bottoms have been done one too many times. But to resort to mom jeans is just deplorable. I get it, you love vintage and die for bringing trends back from the dead. But mom jeans were never a trend. Never. They are just something some woman found to be super comfortable as she carted her kids back and forth from soccer games and somehow it stuck.

Bottom line: Unless you are fashion week model stick figure skinny, you cannot pull this look off. And even if you are fashion week model stick figure skinny … you still look ridiculous. Let’s all get together and burn them, just in case. Sound good?

Now … what we all came to see, the lovely ladies of SNL in their mom jeans, am I right?


The Red Carpet’s In Need Of A Makeover

CaptureOkay, so if you followed me on Twitter last night, you know that nothing gives me more joy than a good ol’ red carpet. I park it on my couch all comfy and such, get my Golden Globes snacks in order (and by snacks I mean wine), and tweet away all the good, the bad, and the ugly.

But there is one thing that made me want to shut it down early. Like really really early because I found myself tweeting so much negativity out into the world, it was even beginning to bother me. Can you imagine? That “thing” that disrupted one of my favorite evenings of the year I would define as Giuliana Rancic, Ryan Seacrest, Ross Matthews, and Kelly Osbourne. Yep. The whole gang over at E! News. I mean …

I left Brad Goreski out because, quite frankly, he saved the damn thing. He’s a newbie to E! News and Fashion Police, but can I say a breath of fresh air? He knows his shit, not just because he’s a stylist to the stars, but because he’s an actual expert on couture and has insider info. Not just sputtering off random fashion buzzwords like Giuliana does. “TULLE!” “STRUCTURED!” “BLACK AND WHITE IS A TREND!” “OMG GIRL, YOU LOOK AMAZZZZZZZZZZZZE!” Vom.

But back to the real issue at hand over the 98.1% of the E! News gang ruining my red carpet experience.

1. Ryan Seacrest was wearing himself, and openly admitted to it and was all about pushing his own stupid brand as much as possible. Should have stuck to Burberry, kid.

2. Giuliana Rancic’s obsessive crush with George Clooney as her “thing” is annoying and overdone. And watching her take a shot of his tequila by herself as George and Amal stood there looking violently uncomfortable was like watching a really bad train wreck you couldn’t take your eyes off of.

3. They couldn’t POSSIBLY think everyone looks that fantastic and mind blowing, right? The whole time I was wondering what Giuliana was REALLY thinking as she showered celebs with compliments. “OMG I love your bedazzled butterfly clutch, Keira Knightly!” Said no one ever in their right mind. I say we need a bunch of real talking queens on that red carpet to kick it up a notch.

4. Seacrest pulling up Instagram pics of celebs was not only boring, but something I could do on my own time. “Hey, Seth Myers, check out this pic your wife posted of you sleeping. What was that all about.” Umm … he was napping, Seacrest. That’s. About. It.

5. Too many mani cams, stiletto cams, 360 cams, and my favorite and yours, a God damn selfie stick on the red carpet. I’m good with just a straight on angle of the celebs and hearing from their mouths why they picked their look and who they are wearing.

So with all of that being said, and oh man I could keep going, E! News needs to give their little red carpet show a massive makeover. It’s tired. And quite frankly I got nothing out of it. Every time they panned to a celeb on the red carpet, they immediately went to Giuliana playing some inane game, or straight to commercial break. Annoying.

I watch the red carpet for the glitz, the glam, and most importantly, the fashion. And, sure, I’m completely biased, but no one gives a damn about men and their tuxedos. Ooooh you’re wearing Armani … which looks like the exact same suit the other dude is wearing which happens to be Burberry? Riveting. The red carpet is about the ladies and the ladies only. Period. Men, you are strictly arm candy.

So give it a refresh. It’s time. I say throw in some more experts like BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAD. And hell, let’s not be afraid to get some people on the red carpet that aren’t afraid to be all, “bitch, WHAT are you wearing!?”

Weight Loss Resolutions

2483E1AD00000578-2902276-Ethereal_Jennifer_Lopez_floated_weightlessly_within_a_golden_ray-a-82_1420742862595Okay, if I see ONE more commercial for weight loss solutions, I may throw a shoe at my television. Seriously. Granted I DO watch a lot of weird stations that just play Golden Girls marathons. But in order to enjoy these saucy broads, I have to endure crazy ads promoting weight loss pills, powders, magical solutions, and what have you.

“Look at me! I took this pill every day and after a month, I lost 100 pounds, whilst still eating cheeseburgers!” I mean, what? How fucking stupid do they think the general population is? Come on, people! What they don’t tell you is that same person turned into Satan and started growing chest hair.

I think the tipping point for me happened when I was watching an interview with J-Lo since she is the spokesperson for this new “weight loss system,” which she made clear isn’t a pill or a quick fix to being fat, which regardless, I find to be a bunch of hogwash. In the ad you see her spinning around in the air with this lovely piece of silk wrapped around her naked body, accentuating her abs and perfectly sculpted muscles. Which leads idiots to think, “oooh I could look like that, spinning in the air naked and draped in silk.” My response to that is, who in their right mind would want to float around naked wrapped in silk? Umm … J.Lo, that’s who.

What killed me was when they asked her what her diet/exercise regiment consisted of. And she responded with … “Well, I drink a shake in the morning, do a different work out every day, and at night I kind of eat whatever I want!” Umm … have you seen J.Lo lately? The woman is FLAW-LESS. Her body is SICK. I’m sure it is part plastic, but who cares? Go ‘head, girl.

After hearing that interview, I couldn’t help but say, Dear J.Lo, thanks for making us feel like you’re the average Josephine, but you’re not. You’re Jenny from the Block. You have a person making that shake for you in the morning. You have probably one of the best trainers in the world, sculpting a different part of your body every day perfectly. You have numerous nannies to take care of your kids whilst you work out. And you have a chef to cook you perfectly portioned meals, who probably also remove those pesky calories, for the times when you can “eat whatever you want at night.” And that, my friend, is how you have that sick ass body.

What I’m saying is, celebrities, stop giving us weight loss advice. Just stop it. You aren’t on our level. Why do you think these shady ass weight loss pills exist? Because people try the advice celebs give them, fail, hate themselves, and go to the next best thing … pills. Because those commercials show Photoshopped “models” with basically J.Lo’s body … which, let me be clear, is a bunch of bullshit. Tanning places don’t spray tan abs for nothing. Just sayin’ …

No two people are the same. And every person has to find a workout/diet regiment that works for them. And for those of you who swore when the ball dropped into 2015 that you will lose those pesky 25 pounds or more … please, do not listen to these idiots. Go to a nutritionist. Go to your doctor. Use legitimate resources that didn’t make the movie “Gigli” … umm hello.

Losing weight can happen, but it isn’t easy. It might be one of the hardest things to do on the planet. It’s frustrating, time consuming, and the idea of not eating carbs makes me want to punch innocent people in the face. I want to cry thinking about going to the gym after work with weird strangers trying to make small talk with me instead of going home to my couch, a bottle of wine, and, yeah, carbs. But it can happen. Just do it in a healthy way, for the love of God. Seriously. For the love … … … OF GAWD.

What I Take For Granted


Photo credit:

Every night, I go to my laptop, login to my blogs “interface” (or whatever the hell you call it), and let my thoughts and opinions fly freely. I edit, hit post, and once I do that, the entire world has access to those thoughts and opinions. I doubt the whole world is reading (maybe I like to think that in my head :::hair flip:::), but still, it is there. President Obama could read it, Tina Fey could read it (OMG I would just DIE), your grandmother could read it, your dog walker could, and yeah, you get the point.

I’ve never really thought about how amazingly freeing it is to be a blogger. I don’t have a boss to turn to do rip my posts apart, I don’t have guidelines (well I do, but they are made up by yours truly, and quite frankly aren’t that rigid), and really, all I care about is staying true to my voice. I can say “fuck” as many times as I want without having to pay the FCC millions and bazillions of dollars (although my aunt does give me a harsh talking to about it, sorry Aunt Pat!). And really, the only negativity I receive are some angry emails over ripping apart topics like Ugg boots (I’m still not sorry).

I can literally say anything I want. And you know what? That fucking rules. And as a writer, a creative, a journalist in a sense, it hurts me deeply over the events that happened yesterday in Paris at Charlie Hebdo. Because those people were doing the same thing I do every day here on Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra, practicing their freedom of speech. Simply putting out into the world an opinion on something, and perhaps adding a little humor to a serious topic. And for that, innocent lives were taken.

I hate to get all serious and political on here, because it really isn’t my bag. But I felt it necessary to show some love for something I take for granted every single day of my life … freedom of speech. Because there are people out there that don’t have this luxury. There are people out there who spit on this luxury and want to hurt those who have it, as we saw yesterday. It’s heinous and unacceptable.

I want to give it up to all of the creatives, journalists, cartoonists, writers, designers, artists, and anyone else who fearlessly practices their right to freedom of speech every day, and I dedicate this post to you. And today, I want you all to think about how awesome it is, and how lucky we are to practice this every God damn day. I know I will.

My thoughts go out to the lovely people of Paris and the families of those who lost loved ones yesterday. And in the words of the great and powerful Tina Fey in an article with Time Magazine, ahem, “[We] cannot back down on free speech in any way. We all have to stand firm on the issue of free speech.”


Overheard At The Salon

via-russellbooks-wordpress-comI don’t know about you, but when I’m shelling out money to pamper myself, I expect relaxation to accompany it. Nails, hair, facials, massages … nothing is worse when you are expecting to not only get glammed out, but also get a little peace and quiet to find the most annoying human being on Earth had the same idea that day.

For some reason, whenever I decide to get my nails did (gel manicures are my jam), like I said, the most annoying individual on the planet is sitting within earshot of me with her BFF or, even worse, solo talking the ear off the poor person doing her nails.

Everyone is different when they go to the salon. Me? I like to not talk. Like at all. I go by myself. Relax. Maybe mindlessly watch whatever is on the TV across from me, politely interact with the person doing my nails here and there, then leave a little more zen then when I walked in. To me, that’s a successful trip to the salon.

So you can understand my annoyance as I’m sitting in the chair, getting my nails filed, listening to this unidentified woman talk her friends ear off about, “how she’s like, in fashion, but really does accounting and works with a lot of numbers, but still is in with the buyers like all day, but totally works in fashion, it just has a lot to do with numbers.” I think if I turned around and said, “WAIT … OMG DO YOU WORK IN FASHION?!” this girl would have passed out in sheer bliss … or hit me … either or. She really wanted everyone and their mom, AKA the 4 other people in the salon trying to mind their own business, to know she works in fashion, God dammit!

I could write a long, detailed story about this girl’s life, and it would be fair game since she was talking at a volume that people in space could probably hear. How drunk she got last year on New Years. Guys she’s hooked up with. Graphic details of cleanses she has completed, and other ones she wants to tackle in 2015. The hotties she likes in towns near by. How her and her mom share bandage dresses (seriously … what in the living fuck), and so on and so forth. Sigh.

By the time I left the salon, she was still gabbing away, and I wanted to harshly bang my head against the wall until I could erase what just happened. Mind fucked was an understatement. I felt dumb. They weren’t even intriguing stories that I wouldn’t mind listening to. They were stories that made me hate being a 20-something woman. Truly. And really made me take a deep long look into myself and wonder, “holy shit … do I sound like that?! Please, dear God, tell me I don’t sound like that.” What can I say, it was a bad, suburban, bootleg version of the Hills.

Listen, I’m not saying everyone has to be a perfectly quiet salon goer like yours truly :::hair flip:::, but what I am saying is be mindful of the people around you. For the love of God. You may think you are walking in the shadows of Lauren Conrad, and that EVERYONE needs to hear about it. But honestly, and I hate to hurt your feelings, but no one cares. Literally. No one. This isn’t a networking event. This is the salon. Where people go to get pampered. I know, I know, I sound like a huge ridiculous bitch right now and you probably hate me. I feel ya. Maybe I’m PMSing just a little … I don’t know. But it’s the truth.

If you like going to the salon with your friends to catch up, by all means, DO IT. Girl time is important. SUPER important. But think about the people next you. You know what? That should be an every day life rule, actually. Train, office, restaurant, store, salon … think about the person next to you. If you hit gold and find a person next to you who is kind of sort of in fashion, too, by all means, chat it up … in a whisper, though, please. Dear God. Please.

Thank you for listening to my rant.

AND SCENE :::star swipe:::


My First Mummers Strut

CaptureNever in my life have I been more pumped to go to work, drink lots of water, and solely eat veggies and only veggies. Seriously. I went to Wegman’s yesterday and like bought out the veggie section. It’s go time.

Why is all of this happening you ask? Well I rung in 2015, and I rung it in HARD. Simply because I found out I’ve been celebrating New Year’s wrong all of these years like a moron.

If you’re from Philly (which according to my analytics, a lot of you are …GLAVIN!), you are well aware that celebrating New Year’s Eve is for amateurs due to a little thing called the Mummers Parade. I did not get this memo. I suppose the sparkles from my fancy pants dress I paid WAY too much for and the hole in my wallet from paying for over-priced cocktails blurred my vision. Since I’ve been legal to drink (wink), I spent New Year’s Day on my couch, nursing my hangover.

The Mummers: Ahem … Great music. String bands. Men/women/kids in sparkly dresses. Strutting. Family traditions. Large amounts of drinking. I mean, did I die and go to heaven?

Little did I know New Year’s Day in Philly is like Disney World, minus the annoying families, lines, and creepy characters. You know what, nothing like Disney World, I take it back. It is just an electric place to be. No longer are we the fat, angry, cheese steak hoarders, oh no. Literally, a girl stepped on my foot, turned around, exclaimed, “OMG I’M SO SORRY! HERE! HAVE A BEER! HAPPY NEW YEAR, GIRL!” I just stood there, stunned, looking around at how fucking happy everyone was. Doing their best Mummer’s struts, sharing beers, cheersing one another. It almost made me feel emotions. Ha!

Listen, I love busting a move. Like really love it. But LOATHE going to “da club” because of A. creepy dudes, B. girls trying WAY too hard, and C. crowded spaces overflowing with douche monkeys. On New Year’s Day in Philly though, it is like your best friend’s wedding meets Mardi Gras, meets a straight up shit show where everyone is happily dancing in the middle of the street, drinking in front of cops …yes, you heard me correctly. Dancing in the streets with grown men in sparkly dresses?! Umm yeah, where the fuck have I been all these years?! Literally, I backed it up on 2 Street in a long North Face parka to Taylor Swift. Again, that really happened.

If you aren’t from Philly, and have no idea what the hell I’m talking about, just don’t ask questions and join in next year. I’m ashamed of myself for being such a chump all these year’s nursing my hangover on New Year’s Day, when one of the greatest parties of all time was occurring just miles away from me.

Now you can understand why my liver is trying to pack its bags and vacate my body. Water and veggies or bust, people. Water and veggies.

Until then … I will be counting down until next New Years.


Farewell, 2014, You Saucy Minx

2e1d779051e837e5239abc550b9c10bcDo you ever feel like you’re in this crazed whirlwind, Tasmanian devil-style, all year and then all of a sudden it stops for a minute on New Year’s Eve, only to pick back up when the ball drops? Because that is kind of where I’m at.

It’s funny, this time last year I was kicking 2013 to the curb in my highest most pointy heels, and now I sit here bidding 2014 adieu with a heavy heart. Every year I do a recap of all my blog posts for the year, and I absolutely saw a theme with my writing in 2014. That was loving yourself and showing your fellow ladies some love, because bullying and encountering “mean girls” doesn’t just stop once you leave the cafeteria, hate to say it. And even though the year is ending, and those posts are going into some weird interwebs archive, those two topics should resonate with you every day in the new year, no matter where you are in life or what age. And don’t you worry, we’ll still be talkin’ it up about it in 2015 … oh yes we will.

Plain and simple, the reason why I adore nurturing this blog so much is because I get to know such interesting people, from designers to store owners, to experts in a certain field, and most importantly, my readers. And this year, holy lord did I get to know such lovely people and even better, I got to share their amazing talents with you. I hope you’ve enjoyed them as much as I did, because in 2015, we are KICKIN’ IT UP A NOTCH, people! 

Listen, you know me, I think it’s totally lame to answer the question, “gee golly, what was your fave moment of 2014!!!?!?!” Welp, kids. I want to say it was getting placed as third best local blogger in the 2014 PHL Philly Hot List (and number one fashion blogger), but I have to say getting the opportunity to have CBS 3 interview me and make Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra sparkle more than it already does was truly a mind blowing way to close out 2014. I don’t have words. I’m not kidding, will someone pinch me, for the love of God?!

Well enough about me. Thank you to everyone who has made this year something special for me and for Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra. Bring in 2015, bring it all, bitch.

Now enjoy my favorite 10 posts. Well 11 because I couldn’t choose, so one for good luck :::wink:::

My Mom Likes Pharrell More Than Me:

Century 21 Words Of Wisdom:

Be Kind:

Adult Temper Tantrums:

Style Stud: Smak Parlour:

Bringing Back The One Piece:

Down With Plus Size:

Let Me Let Me Bra-Ducate Yah:

Phantom Hair Syndrome:

I Swear I’m Not Goth:

My First Pair Of Kicks In 11 Years:

Resolutions: Why?

CaptureWhen I was a freshman in high school, I started naming my years instead of making “resolutions,” simply because I loathed filling out the “what are your goals for the new year” dittos in school as I found them to be A LOT of pressure. (Side bar: remember dittos? Ahh those were the days. Nothing like a fresh ditto.) I would always write something empty and meaningless down like, “get all A’s. Have straighter hair. Become a Spice Girl.” Spoiler alert: None of those things happened.

So yeah, I would name my years and reveal the name after the ball had dropped on New Years. I watched A LOT of Will & Grace (still do), and Jack really inspired my idea with his classic “JACK 2000,” which seriously made my life. So in a shameless attempt at plagiarizing I named my first year “KATE. 2002. THE EXPERIENCE.” Genius, right? I even have a picture of me waiting for the bus making a “2002” with my hands, and smiling like a jackass … braces and all. And no, I will not be sharing said picture.

I did this until last year, which I named, “KATE 2014, UNTITLED,” embracing everything minimalistic, and after over 10 years of naming my years, I kind of had a ridiculous cult following. What can I say, I’m slightly amazing at making the anticipation rise. After the ball would drop I would get flooded with texts asking what the name was, and after a while, I felt like kind of a big deal :::flips hair:::, who should put the name in lights or something and have a fancy reveal. Move over Ryan Seacrest, it’s all about the name reveal. Yeah … sigh … that never panned out. Damn you, Seacrest!

I won’t bore you with what I named all of my years, as there are way too many to list. But what I’m saying is, regardless if you are past the “ditto” stage of your life, making resolutions is a bunch of hogwash. GASP! I know, right? Naming my years for me was like giving a theme for the entire year. One year, I believe 2005, was “Know it. Feel it. Live it.” And you know what? I knew it. Felt it. AND lived it.

You see all these people in January flooding gyms, going on crazy diets, investing in ridiculous juicers that make funky colored drinks that ignite my gag reflex instantaneously, making insane plans to take down Zuckerberg with the next big Interwebs craze, and blowing up like nobody’s business (because that creepy old dude in the commercial is so convincing, am I right? NAWT). But you know what? Come February … it all fizzles.

Why set yourself up for failure by diving into these silly resolutions? Setting goals for yourself, or themes for the year like I did, is way more realistic. If you want to lose weight, make a plan for yourself. Don’t just invest in a gym membership and think that will fix your weight problem. Because unless you have a trainer whipping you out of bed in the morning and a chef making your meals, chances are the gym membership may get a little dusty.

Want to find a boyfriend or a girlfriend in the new year? Step out of your comfort zone (I believe 2007 was named “Stepping out of the box.”) Try a new activity, or a class, take up a language, do something different. Sure, online dating is fine, but why stop there? Not only will you up your chances at finding the “special something” (ew, I can’t believe I actually just said that … vom), but you will end up being a tad bit more interesting. Am I right?

So tomorrow night, if I hear anyone say slash slur, “THIS YEAR IS THE YEAR I’M GOING TO LOOK LIKE GISELE,” I’m going to straight up punch you in the face. You’ve been warned.


A Day In Cat Pajamas

photoThe holidays are semi-over, and if you’re anything like me, you’re bloated, tired, and your liver desperately wants to vacate your body. No? Just me? Lame.

The holidays are a straight up whirlwind. Every year we expect something different and demand something a little more “laid back,” but we all find ourselves overdosing on family time, friend time, and vodka time, right? Again … just me? Really? COME ON, PEOPLE!

As a hibernating yogi (I pinky promise I’ll dive back into it in the new year … said everyone making empty NY resolutions), I believe in honoring your body. You can only take it so far before your body goes, “ya know what, bitch? No veggies, no sustenance, and no sleep means I’m letting down my defenses. Oh yeah, prepare for the worst sinus infection of your life! Suck on THAT!” And then all of a sudden you’re ringing in the new year with a fever and disgusting substances coming out of every orifice of your body. Woof.

So yesterday, I honored my body by not getting out of my pajamas. I know, I know, not THAT crazy. But I wasn’t hungover, I wasn’t dancing on tables until the sun rose the night before. Nope. I just woke up and decided, “yep, not taking my cat pajamas off today (see above, aren’t they fantastic?! Thanks, Santa!)

And you know what? Every single person needs to do this at least one a month, if not more. It’s liberating, in a bazaar way. Close your blinds, keep your pajamas on, start working in the ass grove on your couch, and just kind of disconnect. Relax. Find a good show to binge watch (for me it was Designing Women, I always wanted to be a Sugarbaker), and just give yourself a minute to not give a shit. It’s only healthy.

And by all means, do some tiny things around the house. For example, I took my trash out. And at the end of the day, who cares if your neighbors see you in your cat pajamas? I didn’t. I went outside in my cat pajamas, sans makeup and hair in a messy bun. I guess I just started to accept the fact that I’m not Kim Kardashian and hoards of paparazzi don’t follow me around, and a pic of me in my cat PJs won’t end up on TMZ. Sigh.

I challenge you before the year end (which, tick tock, people), to do this. Whether you’re on a little vaca from work, working from home, or just need a moment to let your body rest, which we ALL do, I’m pretty sure (psssstt you aren’t super human), hang out in your pajamas for a day. Just stop. Give yourself a break. You deserve it.

But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t shower. Nope. That’s gross. Take said pajamas off. Take shower. Put pajamas back on. Whether they are the old ones or a new pair is your call, bud.

Honor thyselves, readers, honor thyselves!

Over It: The Holiday Shopping Edition

dbf693e18b12758544247ddddc7b7592Listen, I’m not trying to be Scrooge. I’m not trying be all “ba-humbug” and shit. But my Gawd, this holiday shopping season kicked my ass. Hard.

I think it was because last year we had an extra week to shop. Now I’m sitting here kicking myself for not shopping online earlier and wondering how much I would actually pay for overnight shipping (I realized my limit would be $30 in shipping costs, which my non-holiday shopper self would explode if I ever had to pay that much).

Because shoppers out there are cray-cray, you guys. And quite frankly I’m over battling the slow walkers, the men who are deer in headlights walking around aimlessly, scared and confused, the people who refuse to move, even if you are breathing down their necks, and my favorite and yours, the children who are left unattended to run around like sugar high freaks as their negligent parents score that one last sale, getting in your way, and on your nerves.

I miss the days of shopping just for the hell of it. Randomly stumbling upon an amazing sale with a rack full of clothes chock full of sizes. Sigh … wasn’t it grand? When the lines for the register were 2 deep instead of 20, and the woman in front of you didn’t turn around and say something nonsensical like, “ha lines … right?” in an effort to build holiday lineships (line friendships … we’ve all done it. You are so bored waiting in line you actually want to talk to strangers).

I realize tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and I realize this nightmare of over heating in stores and dealing with complete assholes is almost over, but I just needed the world to know, I’m throwing in the towel. As much as I would love nothing more than to get everyone I know and love everything their hearts desire, I just cannot. I can’t do it. I tried. I gave it my best shot. But alas, I did as much as I could do. And I hope you will join me. The way I see it, after going to a bazillion stores, if I haven’t found the right gift yet, it most likely ain’t happening.

So let’s do it, shall we? Let’s throw our credit cards to the wind (well, no not really … maybe let them nap in your wallet …cyber theft is a bitch), roast some chestnuts … get all festive and shit. You know?

Enough with the madness. ::::and scene::::

Respecting Thy Mother

kris_jenner_cryingI don’t have kids, and I probably won’t have kids for some time. But I do have a mother … one who I adore and respect unconditionally. So for the life of me, I could never, as a daughter, EVER, imagine sending her an email bashing her sense of style like Kim Kardashian did to Kris Jenner. I just can’t. The concept boggles my mind.

“I love you mom but no more pilgrim adams family outfits. You have exhausted this look done. Move on. We need chic, tight dresses, not this omish shit anymore.”

If I would Kris Jenner, fire balls would have exploded in my eyes as I was reading this, and I most likely would have punted the device I was reading this on (you know, because I’m Kris Jenner and can afford to buy a new one instantaneously).

And I get it, I get it, this is probably part of the master Kardashian PR plan to take over the world, I mean, hello, look at this shit, I’m even writing about it. But Jesus Christ, woman, I don’t care if you are doing this to get Instagram followers or hypnotize all of us to become you, respect your mother, dammit..

In the real, non-Kardashian ruled world, if I told my mom basically her sense of style was shit, I’m pretty sure she would go outside and cry, tell me everything was fine, and passive aggressively not talk to me for an extended period of time. Because that is how non-Kardashian people deal with shit. But at the end of the day, she would never change her style, because it’s all about what you like, right?

Wrong, sir, WRONG! Because when Kim Kardashian dictates something, it means you HAVE to do it. Kris Jenner, mother, momager, pilgrim, was seen this past weekend in a skin tight black dress, because Kim said so. Woof. Poor Kris Jenner, she would do anything for that 10%.

And seriously, Kim, your mother is not one of your accessories. Not everything in your life can be minimalistic. I know Kris Jenner is probably a huge pain in the ass who thinks she is way younger than she is, and wishes she could be you, but my God, leave her alone. She’s your mother. She birthed you. Literally, you came out of her vagina. If you come out of a person’s vagina, rule #1 is to respect said person no matter what.

If my mother wanted to dress like Bozo the Clown, I would let her rock the Bozo look (which would never happen because my mother’s sense of style is perfection to the point where I wish I could steal her clothes but she is WAY too tiny). But if she was wearing something questionable, I would probably tell her it was slightly off in a better way then via a grammatically incorrect email. And in a way that wouldn’t make her cry. Or in a way that wouldn’t make her need to share with the world via her Instagram that I have completely no respect for her.

Nothing is worse when you are out and about and see a bratty kid, tormenting their mother, begging for something, and the mother being all, “okay Timmy, here is your candy.” And the kid is basically all, “yeah bitch, that’s what’s up!” Instead of being like, “wow, Mommy, thank you so much for being the best Mom in the world.” Welp, Kim Kardashian has been reduced to that bratty kid in the mall we all want to kick. “Mom, why aren’t you wearing Balmain, why aren’t you more like me, why do you look like a pilgrim, WEH, WEH, and WEH.” Shut up, Kim. Seriously.

Public Service Announcement For Last Minute Shoppers

bargainOn my way home last night, as I had to stand during the entire train ride awkwardly in a hot crowded car full of annoyed people with overflowing shopping bags, then attempted to walk home and almost got hit by numerous cars rushing from point A to point B that had no regard for me as a pedestrian or my livelihood, I realized, holy shit, this is the last weekend of holiday shopping. And no wonder people are bonkers.

Yes, this weekend is the last opportunity to shop for Christmas without it being over your lunch break or after work. And yes, OMG, you waited until now to do all of your shopping, and all you want to do is mow down innocent bystanders to get your shopping done as quickly as possible. I get it. But stop. Seriously. Chill the fuck out.

Before pandemonium ensues on this last weekend of shopping, I want you all to take a minute and read the following before embarking on your journeys this weekend. Seriously.

1. Just because you waited until last minute to do all your shopping doesn’t mean you can act like an asshole. That’s on you, my friend. And you know what, there are probably a myriad of other last minute shoppers in the same boat, trying to cross off all their shit on Santa’s list. Instead of giving your fellow shopper the evil eye, or an elbow to the face … maybe smile. Give a sign that says, “hey friend, I feel your pain, and this really blows. But hey, let’s make the most of it, shall we!?”

2. Treat sales associates at stores like you would treat your Grandmother. Okay, for real. It isn’t their fault they are out of what you want. It isn’t their fault you waited until now to shop. It isn’t their fault the line is out the door. It isn’t their fault they don’t have clones of themselves to help every single person the minute they enter a store. Would you yell at your Grandmother for things she couldn’t control? Treat them with respect, for the love of God. The holiday season is BRUTAL for them. They deal with complete assholes lacking manners all day long. So maybe give them a break. Thank them. Be kind. It’s the holidays for crying out loud. (Ps. My mom happens to work at Nordstrom and if anyone makes her cry this weekend, it’s ON).

3. Be aware of people around you. Whether you are on foot or in a car, don’t mow people down. It’s kind of illegal, and by kind of, I mean it absolutely is. Don’t shove. Don’t bump into someone and not apologize. Don’t blow past a pedestrian crossing and leave those people out in the cold longer than they have to while you relax in your warm car. The same rules go during the last weekend of shopping as they did when the Titanic was sinking … WOMEN AND CHILDREN (and the elderly … I’m throwing that one in there) FIRST!

4. Manners, people, manners. We learned them in preschool. Please. Thank you. Etc. Remember? Opening doors for people. Letting people go ahead in front of you. Giving someone a parking spot. Tipping a little extra. Pardon me, and what not. Not screaming at people in public. Use. Your. Damn. Manners. And Christ, pay it forward. Why not? It is kind of a rush, I gotta say. Giving someone that parking spot, or letting them get in front of you in line is not only insanely kind, but a little something that could make someone’s day. Do it.

5. And finally, breathe. It’s the holidays. One of the most lovely times of the year. And not because of the presents, you greedy greedy people. The lights, the music, the decorations. Outside of the psychotic shoppers (which I hope won’t be you after everything I’ve outlined above), just enjoy it. It happens one time a year. Indulge. Smile. It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone. But dear God, enjoy yourselves. Last minute shopping shouldn’t be a scene out of Braveheart.


Abominable Snowman House Decor

abominableI never thought I would be a person who would become obsessed with home decor, but alas it has happened. I thought I would absolutely always want to focus on my wardrobe over my surroundings, but nope. Turns out creating a stylishly zen environment is as equally as important as looking fantastic all day err day. Does this mean I’m getting old? Perhaps. Those N’Sync posters on my wall just weren’t doing the trick anymore, what can I say. Sorry JT, I still adore you, frosted tips and all.

My sense of style, decor-wise, has gone from creepy porcelain dolls (thanks mom), to boy band obsessed, to shabby chic, to plastering my walls with pics of my friends in college, to black, white and red only, to now, very minimalistic. Very. I blame the Kardashians. Annoying as fuck, but my God their home decor is on point. Because just like my wardrobe, I don’t really enjoy color, and the same goes for what I surround myself with.

With that being said, my color palette for home decor consists of white and grey. And even more importantly, I’ve become obsessed with white furry accents. Which is totally strange for me considering I’m a magnet for stains. Regardless, these accents make me insanely happy. And quite frankly, what you come home to is your sanctuary, as completely cliche and stupid as it sounds. If plastering your home with pictures of horses is what makes you feel zen, my God do it. (Just don’t invite anyone over, cray-cray.)

Sure, call it abominable snow man chic, or what have you, and sure in a couple of months this trend will fade and I will have to trash the stain-covered, cat hair-covered trendy accents I once fell in love with. But for now, it is all about surrounding yourself with things that make you feel at peace and cozy. Am I right? Clearly. I always am :::flips hair:::. And Jesus, I mean who wouldn’t want to dive head first into a luxurious faux fur oasis?!








A Very Braidy Christmas


Photo credit:

This might be blaspheme for me to say this as I’m a fashion/style blogger (but hey, I like to keep it real), but I suck at doing hair. Since I was 13, my only goal in life was to have poker straight hair (side bar: I should REALLY update my life goals), and since I’ve pretty much accomplished that, I’m just sticking with it. No buns, no waves, no flips, no bobby pin extravaganza’s. Just straight. And down. I’m going to be that women some odd years from now hip 20-somethings make fun being all, “she is SO early 2000’s.” And that is when I will curl up in a small ball with my cats and bottle of chardonnay and wallow.

That doesn’t mean I can’t look in awe at the fantastic ladies who can concoct a rad hair style. To me, these people are like wizards, and I look at them like they are 10 feet tall in awe like, “wwwwoooooooww, how did you DO that?! Like for real, how can ANYONE make the back of their heads look that intricately amazing?

Currently, I’m most impressed by the braided hair styles. Sure, I know how to do a simple braid, but usually get frustrated because my hair isn’t all one length and little annoying pieces of hair fall out, to the point where I end up using a whole tin of bobby pins, which leads me to ripping it all out … and … you know it … wearing it straight and down.

But if you are more competent then myself, a braided hair-do can be a very chic hairstyle for the holidays. Personally I’m not even going to attempt, because you know those Buzzfeed articles that show Pinterest fails? Yeah … I would probably be #1. But for the ballsier gal, I say go for it. Get a little festive, ya know? I’ll be the “early 2000’s boring nightmare” in the corner.

So for now I’m going to go pet my flat iron and wallow in the hell I’ve created for myself since I’ve spent the last 15 years mastering straight hair and have neglected to learn how to do anything else remotely interesting with it. Sigh. But you all have fun with these braided do’s … seriously, have a ball. Or a braid. Whatevs.

For Christmas, I want one of these hair wizards to come and show me how to not have boring hair. Santa can you heeeeeeeeeeeear me?!







Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra’s Favorite Things … 2014

CaptureThis time of year warms my black heart. The lights, the shiny things, the opportunity to brighten someone’s day by buying them something their heart desires. I mean, it truly is delicious.

Except when you can’t figure out what the hell to buy. When you hit that brick wall, all of a sudden your body fills with rage, anxiety, and panic … forcing you to enter Bath & Body Works in a desperate attempt to buy whatever kinds of Cucumber Melon scented shit you can find (and nobody REALLY likes anything from Bath & Body Works, right?) I know, I know, I’m such a BBW hater, I realize this.

So if you’ve hit said brick wall, I want you to brace yourself because something magical is about to happen. Oh yeah … wait … let me get my best Oprah voice on … ahem … it’s LIFE SUCKS IN A STRAPLESS BRA’S FAVORITE THINGS … 2014 STYLEY! Ahhhhh! Ensue pandemonium.

As much as I would love to virtually shove free shit at you in an Oprah-esque fashion, leading to your heads to pop off, I unfortunately cannot. BUT … I hope the list of some of my favorite things will inspire your gift buying experience. And like I said yesterday, it is a-okay to buy yourself something shiny, too.

So let’s do this thing, shall we?

1. Benefit Erase Paste: This shit will take you from tired, hungover, puffy-eyed mess to bright and alive human being. I consider this my magical elixir of life.


2. Aritzia Parka: I don’t believe in having to sacrifice style for warmth. And that is why this parka is a dream. Fur hood, doesn’t make you look like a shapeless brick of down. And waterproof. You could totally rock this skiing or a night out with the ladies. Just don’t get drunk and forget it. This guy is kind of pricy.


3. Muffler (No, not the car part): Old world style fascinates me. The idea of getting dolled up to go to the movies and/or the mall instead of wearing sweats that have PINK tattooed across the asses of women all over the world makes me really happy. And nothing is more stylish than a muffler. Nothing. Gloves be gone, time to get down with this guy.

img40j4. Glossier: I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, Emily Weiss is my spirit animal. And her products from the packaging to the rad stickers to the amazing effects they have on your skin is genius. Pure genius. Slow clap for this bitch.

8093-08F-GLS-SRG-ALLPRODUCTBAG_R_RR5. Chicago-Style Popcorn: Umm yeah, food can be fashionable, right? Especially when you combine something as random as caramel popcorn with cheddar popcorn to create this scrumtrilescent mixture of pure mouth pleasures. Oh yeah. Mouth pleasures, popcorn-styley. It may seem gross, but the cheese and sugary mixture is kind of perfect.

52762-chicago-style-popcorn-mix-di6. Cats: Wait, what? I know, I know, I’m a crazy cat lady. Blah, blah, blah, etc. But really this is just about loving animals, specifically cats, though. There are so many that need to be adopted (no, I’m not going to get all crazy eHarmony girl and start crying on you), but for the right person, a cat can be an amazing partner in crime … and an awesome thing to Instagram. I mean, welcome to my life. I’m a huge supporter of the AWA, where I adopted my cat, Ellsworth. Check them out and do the right thing. Or at least donate money, food, your time … something. (By the way, yes that is my lovely cat … but you can’t have her)

Capture557. NARS lipstick: I know this is so clique, but if you are feeling down and put on an amazing colored lipstick, you all of a sudden get this bad ass urge to take shit down. Seriously, I’ll throw on a lip color on a Sunday while I’m doing laundry just for funsies. Shanghai Express is my jam, but it is notoriously always sold out. A sales person at Nordstrom once told me to buy in bulk, no joke.

06078450100678. H&M Jewels: I’ve become a statement necklace whore, and the most compliments I receive are from my statement necklaces from H&M. And it shocks people when I tell them they are from H&M. Gotta say their jewelry game is on point this season, and price points aren’t ridiculous. You just gotta care for them. They are delicate little guys. Unfortunately their e-commerce store doesn’t have the same caliber of jewels as in-store, so bring it on down to your local H&M.

Capture99. The Perfect Blanket: Screw babies, every adult needs a blanket. There is nothing better in life than coming home after a day of life bitch slapping you and hiding underneath the comfort of your favorite blanket as you binge watch Netflix and chug wine.

img4c10. Blanket Scarves: And when it isn’t socially acceptable to walk around all day with your blanket on, enter blanket scarves stage right. I first knew I was obsessed with them when I saw a friend of mine wearing one and wanted to rip the thing off of her and run away. I love a scarf with options, you know? Blanket, scarf, invisibility cloak. You name it.



Treating Yourself During The Holidays: It’s Okay

clueless-shoppingFinding the perfect gift for every single person you know can not only be exhausting, but brutally stressful. As adults, handing over thoughtless gift baskets from Bath and Body Works just doesn’t float the boat anymore, and if you still do that, well, for shame. Seriously … for shame.

But while scouring the ends of the Earth to find those perfect gifts, for me, I notoriously stumble across things for myself that I adore. On an average day whilst shopping, I can’t find shit. But when I’m NOT shopping for myself, it is like everything I’ve ever desired in my life is in front of me. When people ask me what I want for Christmas I’m always like, “meh … nothing.” But whilst shopping for others, I make a pretty amazing wishlist of things that I want to make out with.

The question is, do you treat yourself when you’re supposed to be shopping for others? Now, I’m a big supporter of the “treat yoself” movement. Every now and then, it is only healthy to buy yourself a present. But the holidays are supposed to be a selfless time. A time when you treat your loved ones with things THEY desire, and give back to those in need.

When it comes to my birthday, I always buy myself a gift. Always. I mean you are the only one who truly knows what you want, am I right? And you deserve a reward for making it through another year. So why should it be any different for the holidays? You’ve worked hard, you’ve been a good boy/girl this year, and even if you haven’t, Jesus Christ, you’ve worked hard (and if you haven’t … well … maybe sit this one out, bud). So I’ve decided it is a-okay to buy yourself a holiday gift. Because loving yourself is important. Even if that means buying an expensive handbag that makes you drool that you really can’t afford, but decided the joy it will bring you is way more important.

I’m not saying scoop up everything you adore when holiday shopping, even if it is tempting. For me it sometimes it completely impossible to focus. “Oooh that jacket is REALLY cute, do they have my size. WAIT … I’m not shopping for me, I’m not shopping for me. Why am I even in the women’s clothing section?! Where in Jesus Christ’s name is the robe department!?

So if you feel guilty, consider me the red sequin devil on your shoulder telling you it is 100% okay to buy yourself a little holiday somethin-somethin. I mean you’re shopping for all these people, dealing with crowds and annoying people spazzing out like they’ve never been to the holiday rodeo before. Do it. Pull the trigger and buy yourself something shiny. You deserve it. Because I said so.

Beard Baubles – Nope, Not A Joke


Photo credit:

Today, I’m going to go somewhere I’ve never gone before on Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra. I know … I know … brace yourselves, people. Because for once, we are going to be talking about dudes and their style. What?! I know, right?

I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know shit about mens fashion, mostly because it bores me to death. Plaid button downs and belts … riveting. But what I want to discuss is probably the most manly accessory of them all, also known as the beard. Yep. A beard.

Recently it is like men just discovered the beard. Wait wait, I’ll rephrase that … HIPSTER men just discovered the beard. It is like THE thing to have. I personally don’t get it. Beards, yes, do look rather dapper on some gents. SOME. Others should just stop trying to be overly ironic and sit this one out.

But having just a beard is no longer acceptable. Nope. How boring, right? Now there are things called “beard baubles.” I thought it was a joke at first, but oh no, people are actually buying decorations to hang on their beards for some extra yuletide flair. I suppose the ironic ugly holiday sweaters just weren’t getting it done for people. Sigh.

I’m not sure if these dudes feel left out because they don’t have as many accessory options as us ladies, so they feel the need to decorate their beards to compensate, I really have no clue. Or perhaps they think it will bring all the ladies to the yard by making them giggle over their ridiculously ironic beard bling, which in turn will make them drop their panties. But listen closely gents … some women … SOME … find beards intimidating. They cause rashes on our sensitive skin, and quite frankly we don’t know what you have hidden in that thing. So to add ANOTHER layer of weirdness is just ruining your chances at getting any action underneath the mistletoe. If anything, you will be that guy people want to Instagram pics of. That’s. About. It.

Listen, beards have been around since the beginning of time, because I don’t believe the cave men had a Mach 5 razor. So just leave them be. If you really feel a void in your accessories, buy yourself a watch or something. I don’t know. You are disgracing the good men who paved the bearded way for you by dangling some weird shit off your facial hair.

Now let’s check out these dudes who know what’s up when it comes to beards, shall we?






Sequins – Golden Girls Style

Golden-Girls_lNothing is better in life when you stumble upon a Golden Girls marathon on TV. I used to watch the show with my Nana when I was little and always said I wanted to be Blanche … which looking back is super awkward because that would make me an old hussy. Currently I would chose to be Estelle Getty because her sarcasm and lack of giving a shit is epic … but that is neither here or there.

As a kid, I thought their style was straight up heinous. Was in mandatory for you to wear shoulder pads, over-sized shirt dresses and pounds of sequins when you started collecting social security? I was never sure, but let’s just say I never watched the show for fashion tips. Quite frankly I have no idea why I watch the show … it just rules. I have no other explanation.

With all of that being said, as a 27-year-old broad, I secretly wish I could rock one of their sequin shirt dresses hardcore. Simply because, sequins really never go out of style … sans shoulder pads and weird geometric shapes, that is. And also because I adore shiny things. There. I said it.

I just hate that people only dive into the sequin pool during the holidays. Sequins shouldn’t just be worn on holidays and special occasions … no, no, no. On a random Tuesday in April, rocking a touch of sequins, I believe, can put an extra pep in your step. I’m not saying rock a sequin gown to work, for crying out loud. But a little cardigan, brooch, shoe with a little sparkle on it never hurt anybody.

So here are some Golden Girls-inspired sequin looks I’m currently drooling over. Click on the image if you so wish to purchase. And in an effort to get people to stop thinking about sequins as something you wear on Christmas or on special occasions, I will be rocking my Golden Girls-inspired cardigan that is dripped in black sequins to my work holiday party tomorrow. Word.







Stores I Won’t Be Caught Dead In

200_sFor some reason, the whole gift buying process this year has just seemed so bland to me. It isn’t that I don’t know what to buy for people, oddly enough. It is that I know exactly what I need, it is just a matter of actually buying it, slash deciding if I should buy it in person or online. I know, I sound like a crazy person, right? There is just something so fun about spontaneously buying things for people that they aren’t expecting but you know they will love. This year, well, I need to dig and find that magic. I suppose

And as much as I love the people in my life that I need/want to buy gifts for, there are just certain stores where I refuse to go. Like refuse to even go to the website. I just remember making my mom go to horrific stores as a teenager and her coming back with comical stories of her voyage. Me, well, I suppose I’m just not that open-minded.

So enjoy as I share with you the list of stores you couldn’t get me to go to even if they were giving shit away (sorry, family members, in advance if you were jonsin’ for anything at any of these stores).

1. Victoria’s Secret: Yeah … their commercials freak me out. That British woman on the voice over being all, “buy one bra, get the second a quarter of a percent off and receive a FREE Victoria’s Secret sparkle tote bag.” I don’t know why, but anytime I see those free sparkle tote bags, it immediately makes me think of a stampede in the store of crazy bitches with PINK tattooed across their asses trying to get these elusive bags. You would think those damn sparkle tote bags are couture or something. I don’t see the allure, nor do I see the want to have the word “PINK” all over my giggly bits.


2. Abercrombie & Fitch/Hollister: First of all, Abercrombie is the devil that only tends to stick figures. Second of all, remember above where I said I made my mom go to heinous stores for me as a teenager? Yeah, these two were some of them (sorry mom). Her stories consisted of complaining about how loud the music was and how incredibly dark the stores were. “Wait, are these jeans? WHAT?! Do you work here? HUH? Why can’t I see anything.” Also, the “Abercrombie store scent” which you can smell the minute you walk in the mall, makes me want to vom because it reminds me of all that is wrong with the college frat scene.

6a00e54f10a09888340162fbf8c139970d-pi3. Boscovs: Okay, why hasn’t anyone said, “hey I have a brilliant idea, let’s do a renovation and step out of 1982″? Seriously. The insane amounts of mirrors and lights make me a wee bit dizzy and slightly afraid. I’m sure there are fantastic sales there, but I just kind of feel like the store is a black hole and if you step into it, it is like an immediate time warp … and not the good kind.

boscov_jayKayEss4. Bath & Body Works: Need I say more? It’s like an instantaneous headache. Between the scents and the over enthusiastic employees … I just cannot stand it. “Do you like cucumber melon? Do you like cucumber melon soap? How about cucumber melon eye masks. Did you know we have a whole cucumber melon body suit so you never lose the scent?! CUCUMBER MELON … ahhhh :::brain explodes::::” Listen, I got down with Cucumber Melon about a million years ago when I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup and I considered Bath and Body Works the second best thing. This ship has sailed kids, along with the headache that goes with it.

m2tgzETqULPb6qkGPdmXD6g5. The Disney Store: This is a no brainer. I don’t know what freaks me out more, adults walking around the store secretly putting Cinderella-branded items on their Santa wish list, or kids screaming to their parents about how good they’ve been this year and why can’t they have said toy now, as Fantasia plays in the background. Yeah … no. Nothing good comes from Fantasia … NOTHING.


So there ya have it. If I’ve broken any of your hearts, I apologize, but deep down you know I’m right. Take me to Auntie Anne’s and I’ll be your best friend for holiday shopping, but I will plant my feet firmly and refuse to enter any of the above stores kindly as I finish my cinnamon sugar pretzel.

Marsala – Pantone Color Of The … What?!


Photo credit:

I have a long list of words that I loathe. Number one on my list is a word that rhymes with “hoist”. You know what I’m talking about :::shutters::: and never will you hear the word escape my lips … NEVER, I say, NEVER!

So when I heard the Pantone color of the year was “Marsala,” my mind immediately went to my favorite Italian restaurant, a big plate of chicken marsala, copious amounts of carbs and wine, and a rather large food coma to follow. Which immediately made me cringe. Sure, chicken marsala is delicious … one of my favorite Italian meals as a matter of fact. But thinking about it in terms of fashion and home goods … well … woof.

By now I’m sure you are aware that I’m not a HUGE fan of color, especially in my wardrobe. Never once will you see me frolicking down the street in a hot pink sweatsuit. While “marsala” doesn’t scream, “HEY! YOU! LOOK AT ME!” I still can’t help but feel I will be walking around with a huge pasta stain on my shirt if I rock said color. Do you know what chicken marsala looks like?! It ain’t pretty, but my God, sure is delicious.


Photo credit:

Marsala, well sure it has a cool name, but I just don’t think it knows what it is. It’s like trying to be ox blood (which was so 2013 … am I right?), but like kind of wants to be brown, but isn’t sure and doesn’t want to commit. Perhaps sticking its pinky toe in beige. It seems more of a follower color than a color that owns it shit, like orange. Orange knows what’s up.

And quite frankly I don’t want to walk into Sephora and have some stylist tackle me and try to make “Marsala” happen on my eyes. It happened to me once during the Pantone color of 2012, Tangerine Tango. I went to Sephora trying to get a new “look” on my eyes and walked away looking like a tangerine has vomited all over my face.

Marsala personally isn’t my cup of tea, mostly because I will feel like a huge tool walking into a store and asking them if they have anything in a “marsala,” teeth clenched and all. Sure it would look nice in an accessory … a scarf for the ladies or a tie for the gents. Other than that, I’m going to think of marsala in one way and one way one … in the delicious chicken form.

Mmm … shit now I want chicken marsala.

Apparently You Can Rent Ugly Now

CaptureI bet you’ve been wondering where the frick I’ve been. I wish I could say I was on the island of St. Bart’s chillin’ with my super cool friends on a super cool yacht sipping on super cool “Diddy approved” champagne. But alas, I had some sort of Black Death that led me to talk to my cats and my cats only in my bed for the past couple of days. But enough about that :::cough:::

I want to talk about ugly Christmas sweaters. A theme party that should have stayed behind with all of the other ugly things that went along with attending college, like dressing like a whore for Halloween and a whore for Christmas (sexy reindeer, duh?).

Back in my day :::adjusts dentures:::, we would go to the local thrift store or Good Will and see what kind of absolute crap we could find. And if that didn’t work, we would get all Martha Stewart on a sweatshirt and make our own. Any opportunity to show up to a party looking like an absolute a-hole was my cup of tea. No competition, no whose dresses is more bandaged than the other, or whose ribs stick out more. More like who has the most rad glitter encrusted Christmas unicorn sweater on to cover up the 15 pounds they’ve gained since Freshman year. It was comfortable, and my favorite part, you could pass out drunk it in … comfortably!

But kids, apparently “thrift store Christmas sweaters” just don’t fly anymore. Wasn’t the whole point of buying an UGLY sweater at Good Will was that it was ugly and you were only going to wear it once, so you didn’t want to spend more on it then what a case of beer cost. Right? I’m right, right? You know I’m right.

Henceforth why my brain exploded that Rent the Runway was letting fashion-forward broads rent ugly Christmas Sweaters. Oh I’m sorry, did Rachel Zoe pull these from her vintage archives or something? Does DVF have a line of ugly Christmas sweaters from 1985 that I was unaware of?

Why, dear God why, would anyone rent an ugly Christmas sweater? I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. They aren’t even ugly! They are kind of charming as a matter of fact. And my God, that just defeats the whole purpose. You aren’t supposed to walk around bragging about where you got your ugly Christmas sweater. “Mine’s vintage.” Well yeah, mine was previously worn by a crazy hobo who thought birds could talk to him.

True, I loathe the idea of an ugly Christmas sweater party. I’m 27 years old. If I’m going to a holiday party, I’m going to rock my style …and maybe add a little Golden Girls sparkle flair, not sip spiked cocoa with a bunch of adult nerds giggling over whose sweater is the ugliest. It’s outdated and quite frankly, a bit vanilla. But to go so far as to rent one, well kids, that is just a little desperate. The whole point is that it must be U-G-L-Y. Ill-fitting, nasty, worn by some freak prior, and burns your retinas. If you MUST partake in this type of shindig, bring it on down to a thrift store. Help the little guys and spend $4 on some REALLY heinously ugly shit.

Ps. Rent the Runway I still adore you. Like a lot. And for Christmas I would LOVE if you were to open one of your boutiques in Philly. Just saying. :::wink:::

The Northface Clones

8073301_fpxI’ve never put a lot of emphasis on being warm. I was that asshole in college that would strut around the streets of the city in “going out” tops when it was 30 below out that consisted of an inch of fabric around my taas, and nothing more, leaving onlookers to scream things like, “put a coat on ya whore, it’s freezing!” (Hi mom).

The Northface Denali was the thing to have during my high school/college years. Every girl had at least the black one, and maybe three others in different colors. I had to have it. I swear the good people over at The Northface sewed in hypnotizing devices in each coat so every girl who passed one immediately needed it.

When you come out of The Northface Denali haze, you realize what a true fool you were. There is absolutely no allure to this coat. They aren’t chic. They aren’t fashion-forward. They aren’t timeless. It’s just an overpriced black fleece coat, or excuse me, some weird technologically advanced fabric they engineered to keep you somewhat warm. That’s. About. It. Riveting, right? So I came to and indulged in some proper coats … trenches, over-sized black wool coats, faux fur. The warmth factor of all are debatable.

But let’s roll back to last winter, when the polar vortex was bitch slapping us every single day. The ice cold beating must have made me lose my marbles, because once again, I asked around for the “warmest coat out there,” and all I kept hearing was the long Northface puffy coat in black. I resisted temptation as much as I could, until I opened a Christmas present and found my mother had pulled the trigger for me. I was secretly so pumped. I was always so envious of the stylish girls in their long puffy coats, strutting down the street with their over-the-knee boots, red lips, and slicked back hair (I told you, I have a very vivid imagination). But why?

Sure, this coat is warm as hell. And I’m thankful for having it, I really am. That was until I whipped it out for the first time last week, and on my way to work, I felt like I was in a weird episode of the Twilight Zone. Ever single girl I passed had the same coat on that I was wearing. I wish I were exaggerating. Northface clones were strutting the streets of Philly. And it didn’t stop there. Every day after I saw them. And quite frankly, it freaked me out.

Listen, I don’t need to be the most original, the most outlandish, the one to flip their hair and be all, “I had that first,” I really don’t. In fact, I loathe those people. But why, dear God why, does everyone drink the Northface kool aid and all have to indulge in the same coat habits and be walking around like a Northface army or something? It’s a little weird when you think about it.

I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. I once again I fell down the Northface rabbit hole, and you know what? Once again I’m starring at this Northface coat that I’m so blessed to have and find no allure to it. It isn’t sexy. It isn’t cute. It isn’t timeless. It’s just warm. Perhaps I’ve been reading too much about Parisian women as of late, but we do too much damn work styling ourselves to be covering up it with coats that look like the Michelin Man designed it.

Again, I’m thoroughly thankful for the coat I have. I just wish I didn’t feel like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone when wearing it, like I’m apart of this army of Northface clones who capture non-Northface wearers, throw them in a cage, and make them drink the kool aid to be ONE OF US. ONE OF US. ONE OF US.

I told you, I have a very vivid imagination. 

Style Stud: Lafayette Kanard

CaptureIf I remember any advice my Nana gave me, it was, “never wear a logo because a brand isn’t paying you to be a walking billboard.” From then on I avoided logos at all costs. Well … I did fall down the Abercrombie and Fitch rabbit hole for a brief period before college. I mean hey, we all makes mistakes.

I love a good t-shirt, but what makes me swoon even harder is a t-shirt that is not only original, but handmade with care and precision by a true artist. You can see why I was immediately drawn to local designer, Lafayette Kanard’s designs that Emily Goulet of Philly Mag’s Shoppist so immaculately raved about. After reading her article, I had to socially stalk him (which I did successfully, a-thank you) and get to know him more.

Please enjoy getting to know him as much as I did. He’s absolutely a Philly talent to keep your eye on.

What inspires you?

Life. My experiences, both struggle and success, mainly struggle though. Also, the people I love.

Describe your design aesthetic.

LEFT. Organic. Substance.

Tell me about your partnership with BelaShehu. How did it happen, how did you collaborate for the collection at Joan Shepp?

The collab with Bela and I was fate, very organic. We both worked with Craig Von Schroeder CEO/Founder of Commonwealth Proper a while back, but never crossed paths and formally met. Then one day while strolling through Rittenhouse I noticed her, called her name (startling her) and a few weeks later she invited me to the Ninobrand atelier. We vibed out, shared personal experiences, and connected. I remember telling her about a collection I was working on at the time called “LESS.” The conversation(s) & questions of “less is more,” “more is less,” came up and “LESS vs MORE” was birthed.

I never collaborated with Joan Shepp, (maybe something is in the works) but I have been blessed with product placement for KUSTOMS by LK in their retail space since October of 2013. I love Joan and Ellen, that’s family.


Do you hand-paint all of your designs? What goes into hand-painting fabric?

YES! I hand-paint, and will continue to hand-paint every single piece that goes onto each garment. I am fusing art with fashion so when someone purchases my product they know that my hands actually created this art piece.

Hand-painting fabrics isn’t for everyone. There’s many different elements that goes into it. It takes 10,000 hours of tedious love/passion, precision, calculation, and vision. You also have to know what fabrics work well with paint(s) and which paint(s) work well with fabrics & textures.

How did you get the idea for “left” shirts? What does it mean?

By going LEFT, literally. After graduating, well technically graduating from Architecture + Design High School (CHAD) I took a year off instead of going straight to college. I then received pressure from my grandmother & others to go back to school. I completed a semester at CCP and then transferred to The Art Institute of Philadelphia. Majoring in Graphic Design, a goal at the time, I was in my drawing class and my teacher stopped the entire class one day during a live portrait and said, “Lafayette! Why do you keep coming to my class? Your drawings are amazing, clearly talented, you’re always stylish. Change your major to Fashion Design and don’t come back to my class.”

I left the class puzzled as hell, like what the fuck is she talking about! During my computer science class, it hit me, I had this feeling of her being right. A feeling I couldn’t explain. I walked out that boring C.S. class and never went back. I dropped out (very Kanye-esque). Of course my grandmother and others disagreed with my choice, they told me it wasn’t the “right” way of doing things, that if I didn’t obtain a degree I wouldn’t be successful in life (man were they wrong). I didn’t follow the typical, mediocre way of society’s “right way” to make it in life. I went “LEFT,” I followed GOD and followed my heart & that formula has been working every since. LEFT is my right, it means to follow GOD & follow your heart.


What is your favorite t-shirt and why?

My favorite t-shirt would have to be my unreleased ‘L-K’ tee which will drop SS15. Reason being is because, not only does it represent my name, inspiration from one of my favorite brands, but even more because of a suggestion that my girlfriend’s brother gave me before he passed away from cancer back in November. May he rest peacefully knowing that I applied his advice.

Who is your favorite designer and why?

YOHJI YAMAMOTO and the cross collab with Adidas Y-3 ^_^ Why? Because he’s an O.G. & his attention to detail, simplicity and quality is spot on. The overall aesthetic of his draping, to his comfort back to the ninja-like inspiration of the Japanese culture. Also because not everyone can afford it nor knows too much about the brand. It’s not over saturated.

What is next for you? Where can people buy/view your other pieces?

Next… just have to wait and see. People can not only purchase my pieces from Joan Shepp located 1811 Chestnut St. Philadelphia PA. but also at The Geisha House in Old City, Philadelphia. I’ll have an e-commerce site launching in 2015. Stay updated by following my brand on Instagram: @kustomsbylk and my personal Instagram: @lafayettekanard

Any advice for aspiring Philly designers?

Follow your heart! Put your 10,000 hours in. Remain humble, work hard/smart, love what you do, do it with passion, do it with purpose!


My Admiration For Emily Weiss


Image credit:

I was a huge fan of the Hills as I had an editorial internship at a fashion mag the same time LC and Whitney were at Teen Vogue, and me and my co-intern, Kelly, were convinced we were them as we sat in our intern room proudly working our asses off and making a truce that if we got the opportunity to go to Paris, we would GO. TO. PARIS.

Lauren Conrad was my spirit animal from 2007-2009. If I could have skinned her and worn her, I would have. So you could imagine my disgust for Emily Weiss, also known as “Vogue super-intern,” who would fly in and make her and Whitney look like complete assholes (or at least that is how MTV portrayed it). Girls like her that are so perfectly flawless and make jobs look so effortless make me want to punt things.

Flash forward to today, some :::mumbles::: years after my Hills obsession, and Emily Weiss is what I’m ALL about. I started slowly becoming immersed in Into The Gloss, a blog I bowed down to without realizing it was “her.” But even after finding out “super intern” was behind the blog I was gushing over, it didn’t matter.

Most recently my borderline stalker obsession falls with her new cosmetics line, Glossier. Whilst getting my hair did this weekend, I read an interview with her in an old Elle Magazine, and immediately fell in love. She no longer was that perfect specimen of an intern that shows up everyone and everything, in fact I don’t think she was EVER that girl. She was too busy making a name for herself, and not only doing a job, but doing it so fucking well it left a mark instead of crying over dirt bags like Jason whatever-the-hell-his-name-was.

Right now in my life, I crave to ingest as much as I can about powerful women to not only inspire me, but to help me keep on keepin’ on. Lauren Conrad, yes, a totally success, but to me she is the fashion industry’s Martha Stewart. Cool, you cut your hair … again! Cool, you had the most Pinterest-worthy wedding of all time (yawn). Shit, the day that chick gets pregnant I may give up on the Interwebs all together.

Listen, if you aren’t familiar with Into The Gloss (first of all, what the hell is wrong with you), or Glossier (again, why), get educated. For the girl who gets overwhelmed at the sight of a Sephora, Glossier products seems like they will be your best friend, as they keep it real. True, I have not tried these products, but literally find myself foaming at the mouth awkwardly awaiting for my golden opportunity to do so. And also, a Glossier sticker is considered Instagram GOLD right now, how rad is that?

It’s funny how we change over the years, as I never thought at 27 I would want to punt Lauren Conrad in the face every time I saw an article about her perfect life. But Emily Weiss is absolutely a breath of fresh REAL air that is so intriguing to me right now. She makes me want to get off my couch, remove my granny-like blanket from my shoulders along with my Eeyore attitude and like head butt a CEO in the face until she backs my brand. She keeps it raw and is making such a bold mark on the fashion industry. Hey, gotta respect that, because that just ain’t an easy thing to do, kids.

#GirlBoss? No, too trendy. I take it back.


Photo credit:

Less Is More Whilst Shopping

Signs-You-Have-Too-Many-ClothesNothing in life is better when you go shopping, end up breaking your arm due to too many clothes to try on, and then end up liking everything. Right!? It’s genius. Well, maybe, it’s kind of a double-edged sword.

But during my first voyage to Century 21 Philly, the stars aligned and I ended up liking 98.7% of everything I brought into the fitting room. And mind you, I could only bring like 8 items with me at a time, and had to swap out clothes three different times. In fact my right arm hurt the next day from carrying it all around (sad, right? Muscles is something I don’t got).

So then I was faced with the deadly question, “can I afford everything I love here,” which was WAY too much shit. Like too too much. I was high on clothes, what can I say. Questions like, “do I need to eat this week,” and “how does one sell their eggs” crossed my mind … true signs of an addict. But I stopped myself because I have a problem called, “quickly falling in love with an item, not thinking it over, buying it, then never wearing it.”

Enter palazzo pants stage right. I bought them in early spring from Zara, red and wide-legged to the max, imagined myself strutting down the sun-kissed streets, hailing cabs and flipping my Herbal Essence-like hair in them and immediately fell in love with the idea. I become so immersed in this vision that I neglected the fact that they were COMPLETELY see-through. Then I just wanted to set fire to them.

These “visions” are why I buy things and never wear them. What can I say, I have a vivid imagination. But during this trip to C21 Philly, I decided to stop this pattern that only wastes my precious dolla-dolla bills, pull over to the side of the store and think shit out.

I encourage you all to do this. I know, I know it is all “go, go, go,” but taking a second to think it over and decide if you REALLY love the piece or if you’re just picturing yourself as something you aren’t (i.e. Kate Moss on a spring day) is UBER important. For the first time, I walked away with really awesome pieces, that I love, fit amazingly, and that I look forward to wearing and styling in different ways.

So before you buy, and end up with a closet full of “meh” items, or if you are like me, ones you want to set fire to, consider these things:

1. Is it seasonally appropriate? Will it keep me warm? Will it be too hot? Can I layer? (Real talk, I almost bought a pair of pants that were paper thin. It is going to be 20 degrees tomorrow. Genius, self, genius.)

2. Is this in my color palette? If you don’t wear pink and things with bows on it, why buy the shirt? And if you don’t have a color palette, work on it, for the love. No one likes looking like ROYGBIV vommed all over them (Side note: I almost purchased a shirt that was pink with bows on it … I told you I was high on clothes)

3. Do I own this already? (We are creatures of habit. I have the same black sheer shirt in 5 different styles … and I could easily buy more)

4. Is this piece see-through, or defective, pulls, rips, stains … and if it is see-through, think about how your under garments can work with it. Do you have to go commando or do you have to purchase some weird ass contraption that will turn this $40 top into a $95 top?

5. How will this piece hold up? Will I need to get it dry cleaned every time I wear it? It is fabric that wrinkles when the slightest wind blows on it. (I have a white button down that I cannot wear because if a mouse coughs, it wrinkles … nobody’s got time for that nonsense). All of these things will add cost, time, and annoyance to your life.

Style Stud: Tiny Airplanes

CaptureRemember that time my best friends accused me of worshiping Satan early this week because of the necklace to the left? Welp … I introduce you to its designer, one of the most creative souls I have had the pleasure of meeting, Nikki Virbitsky. Her jewels and goods and what not fall under her company, Tiny Airplanes. Follow her and become just as obsessed as I am … I command you!

Like I’ve mentioned numerous times, I’m a complete and utter jewelry whore and when something shiny and interesting catches me eye, I just have to have it. I first became one with Tiny Airplanes this past summer where I purchased this antler-like necklace. For me, it definitely wasn’t something I would have been normally drawn to, as I had never been one to even wear fur, let alone an antler from a deer around my neck. But there was something inside of me that knew if I didn’t purchase it I would be torturing myself thinking about it day-after-day. So I went for it, and I kid you not, I wear it pretty much every day because it compliments all of the other crazed jewels I wear.


More recently is when I took a deeper plunge into the wonderful world of taxidermy, enter claw necklace stage right. Again, there is just something to Nikki’s jewelry where you don’t immediately think, “OMG THERE’S A CLAW IN THAT NECKLACE RUN,” but instead get entranced by it’s beauty and craftsmanship. And for the person who isn’t a fan of taxidermy, she caters to you as well, as you can see I purchased an antique doll piece necklace from her that I adore as well.


I realize taxidermy is a touchy subject. I’m not even sure how I 100% feel about it yet. Right now I believe if the animal passed away in a natural manner and an artist gets to do something beautiful with it in a respectable way, why the hell not. I’m not going to push my views on people and be like, “hey you, look at this claw around my neck, isn’t it gnarly?!” No. I believe in beauty and that is that.

With that being said, be sure to check out her goods this weekend at the Taxidermy Competition on Saturday, November 15 at 7 p.m.! And while you are there, check out another artist that I’m a huge fan of, Kristie Matt of Clovenhoff for some one-of-a-kind beautiful pieces as well.

Defining My Spirit Animals


Photo credit:

I’ve been talking a lot about spirit animals this week. What can I say, I find a buzz word and I beat it to death. What is a spirit animal, you ask? Well … Urban Dictionary defines it as:

A spirit animal or totem is meant to be a representation of the traits and skills that you are supposed to learn or have. Online, saying something or someone is your spirit animal is a statement that said person or thing is a representation of you or what you want to be.

Friend 1: “Did you see Misfits last night?”
Friend 2: “YES. Nathan Young is my spirit animal.”

In my line of work, career path, life in general, spirit animals are what keep me going. In fact, I think no matter what you do … cow herder, accountant, surgeon, designer, you need a spirit animal in order to help you grow. If I feel I’ve hit a brick wall, or don’t know what to do, where to go, what to write next … I hit up my spirit animals. And no it’s not a damn cat … okay maybe it SOMETIMES is a damn cat … but whatever, I love my cats, leave me alone! Ahhhhhhh :::runs away::::

So in an effort to invoke your spirit animals, I thought I would go ahead and share with you some of mine, just a few, you know, my mega spirit animals. It is so important to have role models, no matter what age, or just people who you find so intriguing and so bad ass that they make you want to explore new aspects of life. I encourage you to find your inner spirit animals and embrace them. Hell, give them props.

1. Patti Smith: I read her book Just Kids after graduating college when I was the definition of a lost puppy and it became one of my all-time favorite books. I wanted to go to NYC, but I didn’t, but I did. At that time, I was begging for inspiration or something to help me make sense of this “real world” which was incredibly overwhelming. I then dove head first into her music and poetry which was just as delicious. I found diving into someone’s life story can really make a difference on how you lead yours.


2. Leandra Medine: Also known as the “Man Repeller.” Her blog is pure genius, and she is an evil genius. She turned fashion blogging on its face by not only writing intelligently, but opening people’s minds up to new designers and ways to wear clothes. She’s also a fucking hoot. When I need a creative spark or find myself banging my head against the wall due to writers block, I hit this bitch up (not in real life, I mean on her blog, but if she wants to be best friends, I’m totally into it. I’ll buy the first round. No wait, you can, you have an awesome book out and I don’t … tee hee?).


3. Iris Apfel: No one does accessorizing better than her. No one. And as a total jewelry whore, I want to bow down at her feet in a non-creepy way. I dream to walk through my life as classically chic and stylish as her. It is rare to have a style that is yours and only yours, for when people copy it, they know it is an “Iris look.” One can only dream to have that style power.


4. Gwen Stefani: I’ve always been a No Doubt fan, not a super fan, but I would get down with some of their tunes. Don’t make fun of me, but I DO in fact watch the Voice, and kind of discovered how awesome she truly is through this season. I mean, I’ve always known she has had this amazing rock star power to her, but I never realized how effortlessly stylish and cool she is. You can tell she walks to the beat of her own drum, and that is something really valuable in this life. True, a new spirit animal to my repertoire, but a powerful one on the fashion front at that.


5. Tina Fey: I mean, do I need to say anything more? I don’t think I need to. I dream to one day have an ounce of talent in my pinky finger and be able to make the world laugh like she does, then goes back to her amazing NYC home to have her, somewhat, normal life. But she’s Tina f-ing Fey! Writing genius extraordinaire. AND she’s from Philly-ish. Philly rules! Cheesesteaks, Bobby Clark, Will Smith. Your town, SUCKS! Hey, if for some reason she wants to be my full-time mentor, I’m totally open to it.


Now let’s hear your spirit animals, people.

Makeup Is My Spirit Animal


Photo credit:

When I look at someone like Kim Kardashian, her look makes me want to take a nap. Not because it bores me or because I think it sucks, but simply because of how many man hours and people it must take to remain that perfectly flawless at all times. Jesus. Going to the gym, walking down the street, pumping her damn gas … the woman looks immaculate. Me? Well, chances are if you see me in a Wawa at any given time, I probably look like an untamed gargoyle with her hair in a bad bun (another thing I cannot do well).

I personally adore makeup. Going into Sephora is synonymous to Charlie entering that room where everything is eatable in Willy Wonka. The colors, the textures, the shiny things … it is all delicious to me. Can I apply it like a boss? Absolutely not. I have not the slightest idea of what to do with makeup, but God damn it I give it my best try every day.

Saturday Night Live

So when Jennifer Aniston comes out and makes a statement that, not wearing makeup in her new movie Cake was, “so fabulous, and so dreamy and empowering and liberating la-de-da,” I gotta say, HOGWASH, sir, HOGWASH!

Sure, not wearing makeup must be amazing for a person who has a team of people making sure your skin is as moisturized as possible and every pore is perfectly opened and cleansed. I’m sure getting facials once a week or so could make anyone not need or want to wear makeup.

For me, makeup empowers me. Of course there are days where I just throw on a foundation and Erase Paste from Benefit (literally never leave home without it, it is my makeup spirit animal) when I’m feeling lazy. But the days that I’m feeling down or not like myself, the right lipstick and the right black winged eye liner can do wonders for the soul. I’m telling you, and I know it is cliche to say, but the right dark red lip can take you from a timid mouse to a straight up street strutter.

I wouldn’t say I hide behind makeup, I would say I feel better and more confident with it on. When I wake up my face is a little too red in certain places, and I may or may not have some ridic dark circles under my eyes, and perhaps I have a drool stain traveling from the corner of my mouth all the way down to my neck (impressive right?). So yeah, jazzing myself up with a little makeup, not Kardashian-style airbrushed to perfection makeup, but a little bronzer here and a little blush there to make myself look less like the hard sleeper I am, then so be it.

So while I appreciate Jennifer Aniston trying to make it okay for women to go au natural, because it is important to love the true you, I kind of want to hear from someone who doesn’t have endless amounts of money and teams of people making sure your skin is as flawless as possible without a drop of makeup. Because even without makeup on (which, come on, bitch DEFINITELY has some primer on or something), she looks amazing. If I woke up looking like that, I would hands down let the public see my face sans makeup. But alas I do not have a team of skincare professionals watching every inch of my epidermis.

Makeup is there to accent the amazing features you already have, and personally I think it has the ability to help women find their inner warrior queen. I’m not saying you need to wear it every second of the day, a la Kim K. Because the minute I get home it is OFF. Again, running to Wawa equals me looking like a proud hot mess and I ALWAYS end up running into someone I know. “Oh hey … YOU! Yeah, I’m not feeling great, that’s why … I look … like this … and have 10 bags of Doritos in my hand. Gotta go BYE! :::runs away frantically:::”

Wear makeup to give yourself that extra pep in your step. And if you don’t know what that is, there are some talented folks that work at numerous makeup counters (I personally fancy the ones at Nordstrom the best … just a little tip from me to you), that can help.

Here’s To The Brave

Capture1If you know one thing about me, it is that I’m a huge jewelry whore. You should see my bedroom, my collection is slowly but surely overpowering everything else in there, until one day I imagine I will be sleeping in a pile of costume jewels. Let me be clear, I would be TOTALLY okay with that.

But there is one piece of jewelry I wear every day. It is simple, it is quiet, and usually my sleeve is covering it. There are no bells and whistles to it, no bling, no extra jazz (which is so outlandish for me, right?). It just rests easy on my right wrist.

A lot of people assume it is a medical alert bracelet as it kind of blends in with my person, and is stainless steal and kind of boring. But in fact it is a Vietnam War Memorial Bracelet that I got at the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C. when I was 17. My Dad served in Vietnam back in the day, so visiting this memorial was extra special for me.

I remember walking past this little kiosk where a vet was selling these bracelets with names of POWs on them. Now, my father wasn’t a POW, nor do I know the man whose name is inscribed on my bracelet, but I thought by wearing this I could pay homage to my father and maybe, just maybe, it would bring me some of the bravery he had by fighting selflessly for our country.

Knowing me, I assumed I would get bored with it and take it off shortly after purchasing it, but I didn’t. 10 years later it is still planted on my right wrist. And, clearly, after 10 years of wear, the engraving with the name of the POW is only faintly shown. In fact, I can’t even make it out anymore.

This bracelet is hands down my favorite piece of jewelry I own as I feel it connects me with my Dad. And as a veteran’s daughter, it makes me proud of all he sacrificed, along with numerous others, to keep our country safe.

I know, I know, I rarely get sentimental on here, but it happened. Sigh.

Be sure to tip your cap to a veteran today. You have no idea what they have gone through, let alone what they are dealing with when they return from war. They deserve our full care, attention, love, and support. I’m very proud to be the daughter of a veteran today.

This post is dedicated to my Dad. Love you and miss you.


My Satan-filled Weekend

CaptureMy style is always evolving … as it should. Otherwise I would still be wearing overalls, an over-sized Tweedy Bird T, and velcro Aladdin shoes from Payless. I believe it is healthy to evolve your style and always be open to experimentation.

Most recently, I’ve completely ex-communicated myself from color. Pinks, reds, blues, yellows … all dead to me. I’ve made a conscious effort to stick to monochromes only … whites, blacks, beiges, more blacks, blacks on blacks on blacks … and instead have turned my attention to interesting fabrics and designs. No, I’m not depressed, no, I don’t hate the world, and no, I don’t want to be Satan’s mistress. This has just been what has interested me as of late.

With that has also come my fascination with out-of-the-box jewelry. Large and in charge chunky chains, skeleton everything, and just pieces that, well, yeah, make a statement. With a simpler palate comes the opportunity for loud jewels, which honestly makes me happier than anything in life.

This past weekend, I had dinner with two of my best friends. They have been with me throughout all of my style triumphs and fails. including wearing a white tank top (also known as a wife beater, but I just loathe that term) as a skirt over flared jeans. Don’t ask, I got the idea from Project Runway season 2, I believe. Sigh.

Shockingly enough, I was wearing all black … different textures of course so break up the monochrome a bit. And I threw on my Italian-horn like gilded necklace with my new taxidermy piece one of my dear friends made that I had to have (stay tuned for a piece of her later this week).

Now yes, as an animal lover, taxidermy has made me squirm just a little. But I think if it is done respectfully and tastefully, anything has the opportunity to be beautiful, and I was just drawn to this necklace (see below). Never once did I find it disturbing or cringe-worthy. I mean there is a God damn pearl at the end of it, for the love. Never once did I even pay any attention to the fact that there was a tiny claw hanging out of the top. I was too distracted by the craftsmanship and beauty. Hey, I’m a simple person, what can I say. SHINY THINGS!


So when my friends noticed my new necklace it went a little something like:

Friend 1: Your necklace is pretty. Those feathers are lovely.
Me: Not feathers :::sips wine:::
Friend 1: Wait not feathers? :::takes a closer look::: OMG KATE WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!
Me: I don’t know, it’s just pretty.
Friend 1: KATE!
Me: :::Laughing::: I don’t even know if it is real …
Friend 1: You need to take that off, I can’t I just … no.
Me: Who knows what it even is, come on … I doubt its real (it’s totally real)
Friend 2: Are you into Satan now? What is going on with you?

Yep. That conversation happened. I found it hilarious and after a couple bottles of wine (yeah that happened, too), they found accusing me of “Satan worshiping” for wearing something a little, hmm, more abstract around my neck just as funny, too … thank sweet Jesus. I mean COME. ON. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to get in touch with Satan, from crying out loud.

A day later my mom and I ventured to the new Century 21 and fell in love with a brand I had never had the pleasure of meeting called “Religion.” It is magical. My mom fell in love with it, too, so much that she almost bought a sweater with a pentagon on it (my mom is the coolest person on the planet, have I ever told anyone that?). Clearly she didn’t, but we both walked away with really interesting and unique Religion pieces.

What can I say, I had a Satan-filled weekend, and the apple doesn’t fall far. Listen, I think it is SO important to experiment with your style. That is what makes getting up in the morning so fun, right? Picking out how you will portray yourself to the world. And listen, who knows, in a year I could be rocking only Lilly Pulitzer (voms). Haha never … just … no.

In conclusion, I’m not worshiping Satan, nor is my mother. But if I could live in the brand Religion only, I would in a heartbeat. And I love me my necklace no matter what. Boom.

A Blessing For The Lazy Girl With Dirty Hair

not-your-mother-s-clean-freak-refreshing-dry-shampoo-350x350Sometimes, as women, we don’t feel like doing certain things. Wearing a bra, putting makeup on, wearing pants, shaving … and my favorite and yours, washing your hair. Remember when, “sorry, I can’t, I have to wash my hair,” was a viable excuse to get out of things? I’ve always thought, “what asshole would actually believe that excuse,” but it has never resonated more with me now as a grown ass adult.

Nothing makes me sigh in annoyance more than the idea of washing my hair. To the women who can just jump out of the shower and let their hair air dry to perfection, I loathe your existence … truly. Or even worse, the ones who just need a quick blow dry to have Herbal Essence commercial-worthy hair. You suck, too.

I’ve never been the girl who could wake up in the morning, wash her hair, and be off on my way to work with a coffee in her hand and a smile on her face. Nope … I was the girl that had to dedicate an evening to washing her hair. Hell, I am still that girl. And you know what, sometimes I don’t want to. Sometimes, when my hair is a disgusting dirty mess, I just want to say fuck it and go out with my friends, or do something more productive then sit in my room with a blow dryer and a flat iron. You know?

That is when I decided to throw in the towel and try a little thing called “dry shampoo.” A product I had prayed for for so long. Mostly during my teenage years when it took me two hours to straighten my hair, which made me NEVER want to wash my hair. So during a day when I was feeling extra lazy, I marched to Ulta to give this new phenomenon a whirl.

First of all, how does anyone EVER buy a product without a recommendation? Overwhelmed was an understatement during this excursion to Ulta. Luckily beforehand I had taken to Twitter to get some recommendations from my fellow style bloggers. And of course, my girl, Meaghan over at District Sparkle (check her ass out) came through and recommended Not Your Mother’s Brand Clean Freak Refreshing Dry Shampoo.

I woke up the next morning to extra gross, disgusting hair that was matted to my face. I took a deep breath, parted my hair down the middle, and sprayed my first ounce of dry shampoo onto my scalp. The first thing I thought was, “holy shit I look like an old bag!” because it comes out white, giving you the illusion of grannie hair, which really isn’t cool when you are ALSO overdue for a dye job. But I followed the directions and brushed it through, returning my roots back to their good ol’ dark brown hue.

I was skeptical to say the least. How could a product so amazing exist that would actually work and release the grasp my blow dryer and flat iron had on me for so long? But it worked. Holy shit … it worked! What once was an oil slick of grossness (sexy right?) on my head, was now this beautiful illusion of clean hair. True, I wouldn’t want anyone to gingerly run their fingers through my hair, because it was straight up dir-tay, but to the blind eye … I wasn’t a scumbag. AND, this product gave my hair this lovely “just went to the salon bitches” scent all day. Glorious!

Girls … run, do not walk to buy this product. Seriously. I don’t care if Jesus himself blessed you with the perfect hair, you secretly loathe washing it. We all do. It is SO time consuming and annoying and stupid … I mean, I can’t. I won’t! For I have dry shampoo! Dirty hair for all!

Got Wang? Wait … What?


Photo credit:

When it comes to traditional Alexander Wang, I would probably sell my mother on the black market for it (sorry ma). It’s amazing. It’s gorgeous. I can’t afford it, but if I could, I would be dripping in Alexander Wang all day err day. When I watch his runway shows, I drool. Literally. It’s disgusting.

Oh course, when you hear there is going to be an Alexander Wang collection that won’t have the cold breath of death price tag, you may get the urge to jump for joy, but I’m smarter than the average bear … or I like to think so (hair flip). Even though I notoriously loathe designer collections for retailers like Target and H&M … I always give them a chance. I always keep my fingers crossed that it will make me want to rise and shine early to stand in line with fellow psychopaths that would sell their souls for a piece of the collection before it goes up on Ebay for astronomical prices.

Alexander Wang for H&M, well, I wouldn’t say I loathe it, I’m just kind of sitting here scratching my head at it like, “huh”? If we were playing the game of, “what Spice Girl would you be,” I guess if you chose Sporty Spice this collection would be money for you … otherwise, again, my head is tilted and I just keep asking myself what in the what is going on in the wonderful world of fashion? Because every girl who gives a shit about style is dying for it. Literally clawing their way in to the H&M showroom to get their hands on a piece of this collection … and I’m just like, “meh.” Is their something wrong with me? Why don’t I like Wang? Wait … what?

If you are anything like me, you have a group of friends that are violently immature and walk around waiting with baited breath to say, “that’s what she said!” as dated and dusty as that phrase is. So I just can’t fathom walking around this earth with sports bras, hats, gloves, dresses that say WANG across them in big bold letters, for I would be a walking punchline. That’s just me though … I suppose my balls aren’t big enough to sport WANG. Get it?!? Ehhhh?!

And then, maybe he’s tipping his cap to the “strong woman.” The woman who isn’t afraid to wear all black and kick some ass. Which I mean, who couldn’t get behind that? In fact, when I see this collection, all I can think about is various Janet Jackson videos from the 80’s/90’s. Like Rhythm Nation, right?! But for me, I wear black all the time, but I’m also the person who has dreams that she goes to hit someone and her fists go limp. I truly couldn’t hurt a fly. I’m more of the run away as fast as I can from danger kind of gal. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea of what to do with WANG boxing gloves.

I’m not saying this collection is comparable to that nightmare known as Missoni for Target … woof … I’m just saying I don’t get it. It’s cool. It’s bad ass. But it isn’t for me. I think you have to be a very specific kind of woman to rock this collection and rock it right. Like Cara Delevingne. You need to be Cara Delevingne. If you aren’t her, then just admire it from afar.

And, for anyone,  Cara Delevingne included, be prepared for jokes due to the fact that you have the word WANG printed in bold all over your person. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Because I’m already starting to think of some creative ones.

But this dress is kind of rad. Not rad enough to wait in line with all the Wang Psychopaths (see what I did there), but rad to look at from afar.


My First Pair Of Heels

CapturePreface: This was supposed to have been posted on Halloween, but due to technical difficulties … well … yeah … didn’t. So better late then never, right? (Damn you … technology :::shakes fist:::)

As I prepare for a Halloween filled with the lacking of tricks AND treats, it makes me think back to better Halloween days. When instead of preparing for a BOOzed-filled evening (see what I did there? Ehhh??! No … no … I’ll stop, I promise, continue reading), I was preparing for how much candy I was going to score.

I feel like I should be knitting something and rocking in a rocking chair on my porch when I write the next sentence, but I believe my favorite Halloween was when I was in the 4th grade. Travel back with me now, won’t you?

I was a freak of nature when it came to growth spurts. While the boys were still shopping in the kids section at retailers, I was making my way up to the women’s section, fitting into a size zero jeans, not for the size, but because my legs were freakishly long. It was really cool. Psyche. When you enter into the “women’s section” for the first time, it is horrific, because I felt like I was going to turn into this:


So when I made the decision to be Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz for my 4th grade Halloween party, my mom insisted that I get a great pair of ruby red slippers, not those lame ones that came with the costume from the Halloween store.

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but since I came out of my mother’s womb, I have been obsessed with high heels. I called them “sippy shoes” because of Cinderella. Get it … “sippy” … “Cinderella” … no? Oh shush, I was a child. So you would think the idea of my mom buying me my first pair of high heels would be something dreams were made of, right? Well no. I was too busy digging my claws into the children’s section and refusing to move on up to be bothered with it.

She took me to TJ Maxx … which I LOATHED. I was NOT a Maxxinista when I was a wee one, let me tell you. Nothing bored me more than following my mom around as she looked through racks and racks of clothes that all looked the exact same as Smooth Operator played in the background. Woof. She was certain I would fit into a women’s size 5 or 6 … so we went to the shoe department in hopes of finding the perfect red heel. The only thing I was certain about was that my Aladdin velcro sneakers still fit me perfectly fine from Payless (which they totally did not).

And there they were. A ruby red satin shoe with, I want to say, about an inch and 1/2 block heel. I tried on the 6 1/2, praying to dear sweet Jesus they wouldn’t fit and I could stay a kid forever, but they did. And I secretly adored them. But wanted to cry and jump back in my mother’s uterus all at the same time. Dorothy would have approved of these shoes, so we bought them, as I was secretly having an anxiety attack about wearing high heels to my 4th grade Halloween party and being a gigantic monster more than I already was, towering over the boys, when I just wanted to click my heels together and stay a kid forever.

When it came to fashion at this point in time, I had no balls. I was cool being the wallflower so no one had any reason to laugh or make fun of me. I was the quiet, shy girl who liked to write. So walking into this party in ruby red HEELS was mortifying. But like I said, I would have made out with these shoes if I could because all I ever wanted was a pair of heels that fit. And walking in them was no problem, as I had been strutting around in my moms heels that were WAY too big for me for years like a champ.

Unfortunately I can’t remember the reaction of my classmates. I blame it on being millions of years ago … aaaaand booze. No one laughed or threw anything at me … I recall that, so that’s good. I’m sure I got a, “wow, you’re tall,” as I was towering over my teacher in my ruby red heels. And I remember doing the macarena (yep, I was obsessed with the macarena), and I remember my feet hurting like a bitch after trick-or-treating, but that was about it.

I truly wish I still had these shoes, but at some point I tossed them as they were “90’s nightmares.” Looking back, it took balls to wear heels to a 4th grade Halloween party. Especially as a “tall girl.” How I got said balls, or where I pulled them out from, I have NO clue. But sometimes you just have to give into who you really are and what you really love in life and not give a shit about anyone else and their dumbass opinions. Word.

Happy Halloween, errbody! Feel free to share your fave costume below … would love to hear your embarrassing stories. And for the love, be safe tonight. Don’t be a dumbass. Keep it together and so on.

Ps. Sorry I don’t have a pic to share with you in my Dorothy costume at age 11? 10? How old are you in 4th grade? Anywho it is down in my basement, and like I said, my basement is scary as shit … so no.

Waist Train THIS

CaptureIf you happen to follow any of the Kardashian klan on Instagram (not that I do … or … anything ::shifty eyes:::) you begin to notice that they are totally pushing products on us. “Wait, if I take those pills that Khloe is holding in that pic my hair will look as amazing as hers!?!” Cha-ching! No kids, your hair probably won’t look as good as her hair, for she has hair minions following her around at all times making sure it stays at that pristine level of perfection. I’m on to your product mind games, Kardashian’s, I’m on to you.

Recently I’ve seen Kim Kardashian posting pics of herself, duck face and all, in what looks like a torturous mid-evil device wrapped around her core. What is this said tortuous device? Was she on a movie set? But no, in fact, she was in her living room, doing what is called “waist training” in an effort to compress her core. WHAT?! I know right, my brain exploded, too.

I’ve seen some ridiculous shit in the name of weight loss. Pills, pills that could kill you but promise to make you stick figure thin, machines that giggle you until the fat is gone, a massaging agent that shrinks fat cells, I mean you name it, it has been invented. But Jesus Christ, a corset-like device that trains your waist and decreases its size over time?! Is this real life?

I mean women, for centuries, have worn corsets underneath their dresses to give the illusion of a smaller waist, but the genius of it all is that you get to take it off at the end of the evening and down a cheeseburger. But this nonsense, a garment that will train your waist to be smaller, similarly to how you train a dog to sit or roll over, makes no sense … no sense at all. “Good waist … now go down a size smaller, come on girl, you can do it, come it. That’s a good waist! Yes you are, YES you are!” Think about it, where does the fat go? Wearing this waist trainer doesn’t make the fat evaporate … so its gotta go somewhere, right? I’m no scientist, in fact I’m an idiot when it comes to science and math related topics, but I know I’m right here.

I know, I know … beauty hurts. We have to go through some fucked up things to keep up with the Jones’ in the beauty department. Waxing, wearing Spanx, wearing corsets, sky high stilettos, god damn strapless bras. But I’m putting my foot down with these waist trainers. Not up in here … NOT up in here.

For any celebrity pushing these on the general population, shame on you. What ever happened to eating healthy and working out? Namaste bitches … right? And if we went on a hamburger bender (man I’m really craving a burger) the night before a red carpet event, we suck it in with Spanx. Wearing Spanx doesn’t train our bodies to do something physically impossible, it gives us the golden ticket to be able to go on a burger bender and still look like we don’t have a fat roll on us. Uncomfortable as hell, but they have a purpose. A purpose that isn’t damaging to our bodies.

A waist the size of a Disney princess is not realistic … or attractive. Kim Kardashian is a freak of nature and I bet the evil people behind these “Waist Trainers” are giving her mad money to hypnotize her followers and make them invest. Wearing Waist Trainers didn’t give her that bod … she has an army of people smacking carbs out of her hand and whipping her out of bed to work out every morning.


Look, we all want to look our best. We all secretly see those commercials for weight loss pills and want to try them but know a few years down the road some lawyer on TV will be promoting a class action law suit for these weight loss pills who gave people a rare form of cancer. We all hate working out. But life is tough enough … why add on to it by wearing some torturous device that probably compresses all of your organs together (which cannot be good), doesn’t allow you to get the proper amount of oxygen, AND stops you from binging on burgers (seriously, will SOMEONE get me a damn burger).

Be healthy, be smart … eat a damn burger once in a while … and literally do the opposite of everything Kim Kardashian does outside of the fashion realm, because, gotta admit, the girl’s got style … thanks to Kanye, of course.

What Up, Fellow Cat Ladies

CaptureMeet Ellsworth and Lit-Lit, my fantastic cat clan. It’s National Cat Day today and if you follow me on any social network, you would know that I’m a full blown cat lady. And you probably know Ellsworth and Lit-Lit a LITTLE too well. I am one step away from adopting another cat and turning into this:


But I’ve always been a cat lady, even since I was a wee child, because my mom has been a cat lady since SHE was a wee child. I remember asking, no, begging my Dad to adopt me this awesome black and white cat from a local farm. And after much eye batting and persistence, he came home with my cat Spike … who passed away years ago. RIP big buddy. I’m not just indulging in the cat lady trend because Taylor Swift gave her stamp of approval, okay? Which makes me nervous because what happens when she writes a song about being so over cats? Uhhhh …

The thing is I kept my love for cats in the closet for so long because it was a bit passe for a while. The term “cat lady” was synonymous with “spinster.” Turning into a “cat lady” was the worst possible scenario for women all over the world. Now we are welcoming it with open arms. They are actually the greatest, Instagram-worthy accessory to have. Karl Lagerfeld says so, for crying out loud. Instead of gossiping about the men and drama in our lives around the water cooler, we are talking about our cats. It is kind of awesome … and weird … and I adore it.

Listen, I’m not quite sure what made everyone in the world go cat crazy, but I’m kind of okay with it, because there is nothing better than a cat. They are hilarious, great stress relievers, don’t talk back, and will always snuggle with you. You can’t say that about much in this life, am I right?

So a Happy National Cat Day to you all. If you live in a city where Uber is bringing around kittens for people to snuggle, I hate you. Truly. And if you are a closeted cat lady and want to scream from the roof tops how much you love cats, I encourage you to go out and adopt one, because they are rad, and so many need a good home.

And now I feel like I’m starting to sound like the chick from the eHarmony video who cried about how much she adores cats. Yeeks. Check it, there is a fine line between Karl Lagerfeld cat lady and eHarmony cat lady. Know that. If you start to own more cats than pairs of shoes and can’t take the curlers out of your hair, and chain smoke inside your house as you creepily look at the world through your blinds … seek help … like, immediately.


Feel free to share pics of your cats or cat stories below! Us chic cat ladies gotta stick together, am I right?!

Adventures In Modeling At Philadelphia Mills

091614_philadelphiamills_600If anyone of you know me, you’re aware of how much I loathe having my picture taken. I know, I know, I’m like a freak of nature when it comes to the wonderful world of fashion blogging. You’ll never catch me posing in front of a cool piece of architecture, or against a wall filled with abstract graffiti. It just isn’t who I am. But I WILL shower you will stock images of much more photogenicc people … so there.

But when Franklin Mills, now known as Philadelphia Mills after some wonderful re-branding, asked me to check out one of their stores and be followed around with a photographer as I shopped, I was clearly skeptical. Me? Model? Not up in here. But the more I pondered it, the more I talked myself into looking at is as supporting a local retail establishment in their new ventures instead of me striking a pose and being something that I am not … aaaaaaaaaand there may or may not been a gift card to Saks Off 5th involved. Maybe, just maybe. Hey, a girls gotta get her fall wardrobe on somehow some way, am I right?


Luckily shopping is something I do when I’m stressed out, and nothing stresses me out more than having my photo taken (something I should really talk to a professional about, right?). So the minute I walked into Saks Off 5th, I started to shop … hard. Which wasn’t difficult as they literally hit every fall trend point perfectly. Fur vests, designer jeans, monochrome everything, sky high stilettos … I was in heaven. It was like I was five years old again and pulling princess dresses out of my toy box … except replace cheap princess dresses with Marc Jacobs. I learned even as an adult, playing dress up is really good for the soul.

Since I was being asked to style fall looks, it was kind of like the sky was the limit. Normally I would just drool over a Marc by Marc sweater instead of picking it up to try it on, as it would only cause me torturous pain, but this time I added it to my collection. Those sky high stiletto boots that I lust over but never try on because I would become gigantor ended up in my dressing room, happily.

I feel like there is a stigma along with outlet malls that they are “shady,” “cheap,” “tacky.” But with every shopping experience you either score and find the diamonds in the rough or you walk away empty handed. Philadelphia Mills absolutely has something for everyone (which is so cliche and annoying to say, I know), but it’s true. I’m a very picky person when it comes to shopping … but nothing pleases me more or makes me want to post all over every social media channel when I score an amazing deal, and that is what you find here.

I would like to thank Philadelphia Mills for the invite and helping me step out of my anti-photo bubble. I’ll admit it, but the end of my shoot, I may or may not have been hamming it up in front of the camera, and channeling my inner Man Repeller (she’s my fashion blogger spirit animal). It’s kind of cool to work with a legit photographer, even if I will go to my grave claiming that I am the least photogenic person on the planet.

Get a little taste of some of my Off Saks adventure below and be sure to follow Philadelphia Mills for sales and style tips and such. Hell, you may even get served a sponsored ad on Facebook with my mean mug on it. What what!



Adults And Halloween

il_340x270.659559187_t73uI adore Halloween. Always have. Well … maybe not so much during my college years since I went against everything I believed in and went as the “sexy” version of non-sexy things … I mean I suppose that is what you do in college. The pictures are cringe-worthy, though, and no I won’t share them with you. Sigh. You live and you dress as a sexy cat and you learn.

This year Halloween falls on Friday, and quite frankly, for adults, that rules. We all secretly would love nothing more than to throw our inhibitions to the wind and go beg for candy … although alcohol would definitely be involved. Clearly. But alas … we cannot. Because it’s weird. So instead of passing out in front of our TVs watching the Peanuts Halloween special on ABC in a candy coma like we once did, we pass out drunk in our kitchens after an energy-filled rendition of Thriller. Not … that I do that … or … anything … :::shifty eyes:::

Being that Halloween falls on a Friday, it really gives us adult-like creatures an excuse to be anything but ourselves. Which is a beautiful thing. But I keep hearing people stressing about costumes and what to be and having nowhere to go. Last year I had a place to go and dressed as the horrifying twins for the Shining. To this day it was the best thing I’ve ever been … turns out I thoroughly enjoy horrifying people. This year, I don’t have anywhere to go, but I DO have this insane urge to wear an amazing mask and maybe some black lipstick. I blame Margiela for this. But if I had it my way I would wear one every single day. Aren’t they dreamy?


Instead of cursing your friends for not having a fantastic Halloween party, or having no one to go with to that exclusive party at “da club” (which no one should ever do … like EVER), or not coming up with an insanely creative costume, I’m taking this as my golden opportunity to wear the things I secretly covet, but don’t wear outside of Halloween because people would look at me like I was crazytown … like a Margiela mask. And I suggest you do the same. Secretly love the Kanye West-inspired leather sweats? Rock that shit. Dreaming of wearing a tutu over your jeans? Now is the time, people, now is the time!

Halloween is the one day a year people cannot judge you. Unless you dress as the sexy version of something, well then people will totally judge you and call you a slut, whether to your face or behind your back. It’s going to happen. Just own it. But if I wanted to wear black lipstick and a mask, no one could talk shit because it is Halloween, for crying out loud. The day when anything goes. And if you do talk shit about people embracing the holiday, well, you straight up suck. Lighten up, bud.

So instead of desperately trying to be a sexy mouse, duh, I challenge you to wear something you have always wanted to, but never had the balls. You don’t have to be defined as something, necessarily. By stepping out of your bubble and rocking an outlandish something or other, like Gaga-esque shoes, or a ball gown for the hell of it, I believe you’re embracing the holiday spirit.

Now excuse me, I need to go work on bedazzling my Margiela-like mask, because GAWD knows I cannot afford the real thing.

Fear And Loathing Of Crowds

holiday-shopping-crowdI wouldn’t say I have claustrophobia issues. And I wouldn’t say that I’m a recluse who lives in her basement, petting her cats whilst eating canned goods. I’m totally good going out and functioning as a normal human being with the rest of the general population.

That is … until there are crowds.

Yesterday I attended a pre-party for a store opening. Philly is bursting at the seams right now with amazing new shopping venues. Which you would think would make me the happier than a clam, which, in a way, I am, don’t get me wrong. But when the words “pre-party” and “free” and “tote bags” and “alcohol” and “free alcohol” get tossed around to the public, it gives people this idea that they can act like complete assholes in public and not consider their fellow man. So run. RUN FAST.


I don’t know what I was expecting, a butler wearing white gloves serving me a chilled glass of champagne as I walk in, greeting me with a, “welcome kate, your shopping destination awaits,” escorting me in to another butler who hands me a tote bag filled to the brim with branded good and gift cards. The aisles are cleared and the perfectly organized designer goods on the glimmering silver racks wait patiently as I prepare to shop. A few lovely, calm people in pristine outfits flutter about me, shopping quietly as they sip on their champagne. As I make my way to the second floor, another butler in white gloves notices my champagne needs to be refreshed as I make my way to the shoe section. As I go to sit down to try on a pair of Louboutins on sale for $100, the butler comes over and offers me a lovely shoulder massage.

And then I woke up.

In real life, pre-party store openings aren’t like that. You think it is all exclusive and shit, but it isn’t. It is like walking into a jungle. You need to take off any extra layers, remove your hoops, and go in ready for battle.

I wish I had a pic of my face the minute I walked into the store. First of all it was 100 degrees, and second of all, there were SO many people, I could barely tell if I was staring at men’s clothing or women’s clothing. And no one moved. No. One. It was like I was having an outer body experience and didn’t exist to these people. I started walking around just to well, walk around. I think I was scared that if I stayed stationary too long someone would try to buy the clothes off of my body.

The only way I could describe the look in these people’s eyes was ravenous. You could tell they would do anything and everything for the free goods and insane deals before anyone else got their hands on them. I literally was a bumbling fool, wandering around in circles, making my way through people (which was no easy task) as “excuse me” didn’t work, and pushing past them only led them to offer me with a lovely, “ummm bitch” comment.

I looked around and saw some people had their shopping bags filled to the brim with goods, and I wondered how they could shop in such conditions. I contemplated exploring the accessories section, as it looked much calmer than the rest, but the idea of picking up a statement necklace and having some crazy broad bite my hand off (literally and figuratively) freaked me out far too much. So I went to make my grand escape.

I shoved through people, who, again, literally did not give a shit that I existed, only when I went against what I believe in and shoved past them without an “excuse me,” which awoke them from their shopping haze to notice that I was, indeed, a bitch messing with their space. Yikes. I ran to the exit, only to find that it was only an “entrance.” What? There is clearly a door to exit here, but no no … I’ll walk across the entire store through these crazy free shit hungry bastards to the OTHER “real” exit, no worries. I’m sure I’ll emerge unscathed.

I took a second to find a safe path, free of crazytown shoppers, which entailed a lot of zig-zagging through racks of unimpressive men’s clothing (these people probably thought I was the crazy one). I finally made my way to the real exit and was greeted by a man who met me with a, “I hope you enjoyed shopping with us!” I rolled my eyes at him and shoved through the revolving doors, wanting to rip off my clothing as I was sweating profusely.

Annoyed. Hot. Overwhelmed. Anxiety-ridden. And not a new piece of clothing on my person. I was straight up miserable. You would think all of that commotion happened in hours, but it truly happened in less than 15 minutes. I won’t give away the name of this store because I do adore it, and look forward to the day I can shop there in peace. Without the free goods. Without the insane people.

But for now, until everyone gets over their “new shiny penny” syndrome, I will be calmly and quietly shopping at the old dusty stores people are SO over. Because one thing I learned about myself is mama cannot handle shopping crowds.

Century 21 Philly: Words Of Wisdom


Photo credit:

When I was in high school, in August every year, my mom and I would trek up to NYC for a few days of shopping and exploring. It was the best. We called it our “back to school shopping trip,” but really we both just loved New York City and knew we could get some really original finds there.

I wish I could say we checked out the Guggenheim Museum, or wondered through MoMA, laid around in Central Park, but we didn’t. How could you have time for that when you dedicate an entire day of your trip to Century 21?

Recently I asked my mom how we discovered Century 21, but neither of us could remember. The first time I stepped foot in there was literally two weeks before 9/11 when I was 14. My mom and I had a croissant at the bottom of one of the towers before going in. Kind of surreal. Even during 9/11 I remembered thinking there was no way Century 21 could still be standing as it was right by the towers, but it was. From that point on, we made it a point to spend an entire day at the store every time we visited NYC.

I like to call myself a seasoned Century 21 shopper, since I’ve been going there for more than 10 years :::hair flip:::. Century 21 isn’t like any other store I’ve shopped. It makes Nordstrom Rak and TJ Maxx look like crying little wusses. If the rumors are true, the Philly store will mirror the NYC store, which means there will be 3-4 floors of insane goodness, which makes me swoon. Literally … I have butterflies like some groupie dork.

You may think I’m being over dramatic, you may think I’m being a little crazytown, but talk to me after your first Century 21 experience and you can buy me a drink for the rad advice I’m about to give you.

Now behold, my words of wisdom to help you get the most out of your first Century 21 Philly experience.

1. Dedicate a day: Especially if this is your first time, give yourself ample amounts of time to shop the store as there’s various floors with various goods: Designer, more affordable shit, accessories … I mean it never ends. It’s so good … it’s all SO good.

2. Fuel Up: Eat a meal and drink your fluids (non-alcoholic) before entering the store. Maybe do some jumping jacks … I don’t know. You’ll only understand once you’ve been there, but it takes stamina and strength, my friends, to score the good stuff. You gotta muscle up when we are talking Dolce and Gabbana for close to nothing. Otherwise you will fade fast and some other lady will get the goods, and no one wants that, right?

3. Dress Appropriately: The fitting rooms in the NYC store didn’t have doors, which was a little mortifying at first, but when you have an arm full of insane designer deals, you really don’t care if some random old lady sees your bits and pieces. I have NO idea what the fitting room sitch is in the Philly store, but if you are more modest, wear appropriate undergarments JUST in case.

4. Be in the Right Head Space: If you aren’t at least 85% in the mood to shop, don’t go. This is a marathon, not a track meet. Lots of people, lots of shit to dig through. When I only had a few minutes in NYC to roam Century 21, I would browse accessories, get frustrated by the people and the chaos, and leave. If you’re thinking, “maybe I’ll hit up Century 21, take a cab ride down to the new Nordstrom Rack, maybe hit up Uniqlo … I don’t know, I don’t know if there will be time!” don’t. Just … no. Don’t. You’ll regret it. Century 21 or bust.

5. Have A Strategy: What are you looking for? Do you want high-end designer goods? Shoes? Accessories? Find out what you want the most and work from there. I always did accessories last because it was less to carry (I’m an accessories whore) and you can’t bring them into the fitting room. I started in the more affordable section, then ended up in designer and was able to filter my finds better. And by filter I mean standing by the register contemplating how I cannot pay my rent that month to afford everything.

Century 21 is where I purchased my first Burberry scarf for $50. Century 21 is where I scored my first piece of designer anything, a pair of Catherine Malandrino jeans. Century 21 is where I got the most original looking things that drove my friends crazy. I can’t explain to you how excited I am that it is making its debut tomorrow in Philly. Seriously … I just … yeah. This:


Side note: Century 21 Philly did not pay me to write this post or bribe me with goods, I’m just a ridiculous super fan of this store. Century 21, if you WOULD like to bribe me with goods, I’m totally available for a conversation. Hit me up, boo.

Malls Give Me Anxiety

CluelessAliciaSAs a teenager, hanging at the mall after school was never my thing. I believe my generation was more into going to the movies or hanging in someone’s basement. I looked at going to the mall without my source of money (my mom) sheer torture, so what was the point? Even if I asked to go “chill with my friends at the mall,” my mom would have said no because at that time only derelicts of society hung out there, shopping at Hot Topic and buying out Annie Anne’s and such. Luckily we saw eye-to-eye on this hot topic.

Some odd years later, as a grown adult, I have no desire to step foot into a traditional mall. Now I’m not talking about the gorgeous outdoor malls you would see in Miami with beautiful architecture, clean sidewalks, and high end stores that have soothing sounds of Sia remix playing. No. I’m talking the old school malls with glass ceilings, fake trees, and kiosks selling hair ties that say your name in over-sized blinged out letters lining the walk ways.

Even though my mall I have gone to since I was a young person has done some major renovations and now has a Nordstrom, two-story Forever 21, and Henri Bendel … it doesn’t really take away the “ick” factor for me. They even tried moving the food court far away from all the “trendy” shops in hopes it would attract the shady balls elsewhere, but I’m going to go ahead and say that didn’t work.

To me, a stroll through the mall is straight up overwhelming and brings me one step away from an anxiety attack. You have the women with double strollers taking up the entire aisle so you can’t pass and have to walk at a snails pace, the people walking down the wrong side of the mall making you play a ridiculous game of chicken, the mixing scents of leather, food, and Abercrombie and Fitch swirling magnificently together, the punk kids who are loud and obnoxious (shaking fist), and the kiosk people who basically come at you with a hair straighter exclaiming that your hair looks like shit and how great they can make you look in a thick accent.

Ps. If you know where this image is from, we are officially best friends.


And you will always see someone you know. That saying, “always dress like you are about to run into your worst enemy,” is basically for people who frequent malls. It is the perfect place to play, “this is your life.” “OMG Kate is that you!?” is the most terrifying statement in the world when all I want to do is find some God damn leather over-the-knee boots and go home to watch Will and Grace reruns. You want to run, you want to pretend you had a tragic scuba diving accident and have lost your memory, but you can’t. Insert torturous small talk here. “Yeaaaaaah it HAS been a long time since pre-K :::rolls eyes:::”

And kids … the kids. The crying kids. The parents who let their kids scream bloody murder. It is like the bad elevator music of every mall. “SUZY! IF YOU DON’T STOP CRYIN’ :::mother continues to shop as daughter continues to scream her brains out::: I SWEAR I WILL TAKE YOU HOME RIGHT NOW!” Jesus. YES! Take her home. How can ANYONE shop with a screaming toddler? Seriously. Yet I see it all the time. I don’t even have kids, but when I’m shopping and I hear a kid start to scream and carry on, I vacate the premises immediately. I’m getting a headache just writing about it.

The idea of having everything in one place may seem like a dream, but something happens to the general population when they step foot into a mall that I just cannot take. I don’t know if it is the bazaar and abnormally hot temps or the absurdly loud techno music from Abercrombie, but everyone just gets a little crazytown. A little too crazytown for my liking, if you ask me. I blame Abercrombie.

Outdoor malls or even city shopping is much more my jam. I think it is because when you vacate a store, you get a breath of fresh air, literally. You get to remove yourself from the crazy for a mere moment until you find your next destination. And if you had too much crazy, you don’t have to walk through another wave of ultimate crazy to get to where your car is. Kid is crying like he/she is being murdered in the store you’re in? Go outside, there is probably a park somewhere to sit and meditate and get your brain waves back in order. It’s genius.

Down with indoor malls. We have all these innovations in life, yet we still shop like it is 1985. “Let’s like ditch and go to the mall :::twirls hair/pops gum::::.” Nope. NOT up in here … NOT. UP. IN. HERE.


The Year Of The Vest

progger_annie_hallFrom first grade until third grade, in every school pic I took, I was wearing a vest with a turtle neck underneath. And it wasn’t like a cool pink fleece vest or a Micky Mouse embroidered vest, no. It was a straight up plaid vest and I have no idea how my mother got me to wear it. She couldn’t get me to wear jeans, but hey I guess I held vests to a different standard. I suppose I thought it was “fancy,” … so fancy I wore it for numerous school pics like an idiot. I can only tell what age I was by home many teeth I had … sad, right? I would share the pics with you, but they are down in my basement in a Tupperware container, and I’m terrified of my basement, so no.

And come on, we ALL fell down the Old Navy Performance Fleece rabbit hole, right? I totally had a light blue one when I was in middle school and rocked that shit like it was nobody’s business. I even added a Paul Frank monkey charm to the zipper. I mean … uber chic. Now let me torture you with the Old Navy Performance Fleece commercial … oh yeah, it’s happening, welcome to the jungle.

I think Old Navy beat us so hard with their Performance Fleece advertising (I mean I still have the jingle stuck in my head like 15 years later) that vests become so passe. The only person wearing vests after 2003 was Paris Hilton’s dog. Even Super Bad, one of my all-time favorite comedies, hated on vests.


Until now, people, until now. 2014 is the year of the vest. Oh yeah, I’ve been hitting the vest scene HARD, and I gotta say, they are all so good and so chic. In the past week I have purchased three different vests in different styles and fabrics, and I truly cannot get enough. What is happening to the world, right?

I’m sure in a few years, maybe even in a few months, I will look at these vests and be like, “Jesus I was on crack when I bought these.” But until then, I intend fully to roll around in my faux fur vest like a boss because I love it so much I want to marry it.





Defining Sexy


Photo credit:

Penelope Cruz was named “Sexiest Woman Alive” by Esquire Magazine, to which I have to say, well DUH!

It got me thinking though, what makes someone “the sexiest person alive,” ya know? Looking at Penelope Cruz, just looking at her, I see she is drop dead gorgeous, hot body, petite, big taas, hot accent, decent actress … so are those the qualities one needs to be named “sexiest person alive?” Who makes up these requirements? Because I would like to have a sit down with said person and go over a few things.

“She is impossibly beautiful. When she walks into a room, men start walking into furniture.” Just a little diddy from the Esquire Mag article. It was almost like the dude interviewing her was just sitting across from her drooling and nodding his head back and forth like a babbling fool.

Penelope: I like to kill puppies for fun.
Journalist: Uh huh … whatever … just keep talking, and maybe eat a little more of that steak … just … like … that.


Listen, I get it, it’s all a popularity contest, and maybe a little bit of a PR stunt. She clearly has a movie coming out. Magazine’s won’t sell if we don’t have a hot piece of ass, dripping wet, straddling a chair on the cover. We like our actors and actresses and musicians too hot to trot so we can daydream about them and buy their shit. I get it. Really, I do. But the whole concept seems a little dusty to me.

A USA Today article outlined the Esquire Mag article with words like “gorgeous, talented, magical, mysterious, and modest.” Hmm … perhaps those are the qualities one needs to define sexy.

The article, which is oddly enough mostly about bullfighting, doesn’t outline her charitable duties, or organizations she’s associated with, or how she is helping to make the world a better place. Nope. But don’t worry fellow ladies, she likes to eat JUST like us! “She is always hungry, she says. She orders the chuletón de buey, a huge slab of bone-in rib-eye steak, seared on the outside and covered with coarse salt. When it arrives, the beef is so rare that it is crimson and gleaming in the middle. If it ever had a relationship with fire, their time together was insignificant and short. She stabs her fork into her first thick slice and cuts into it with her knife.” Umm … is this supposed to be turning us on? Because it is NOT working, just to be clear. In fact I’m rather uncomfortable.


Listen, congrats to Penelope Cruz, the title was well deserved in some weird way, but really … like I said … the concept is dusty. I don’t care that Penelope Cruz is attracted to drama now but hated it when she was younger, and that she speaks 14 different languages. I seriously couldn’t care less. I want to read about a hot ass woman who not only is a knock out and likes to eat, but is INTERESTING … doing cool things, gets her hands dirty in changing the world, inventing something new … becoming the female Mark Zuckerberg. Not saying Cruz doesn’t have interesting things in her life, but hello, share them with us, for crying out loud.

I’m sure you’re thinking, “oh you’re just jealous.” And you know what? You’re absolutely right, I am. She looks amazing after having kids and she’s 40! Guess I’m just too busy drinking wine and eating carbs to get my body in perfect shape for an Esquire Mag cover shoot. :::Sigh::: But hey, that’s just me. I just would like to know what the definition of “sexy” is for someone to be deemed “the sexiest person alive.” That’s all.

Until then …


My Mom Likes Pharrell More Than Me

photo credit:

photo credit:

For real. Like if she could skin Pharrell and wear him, she would. Well, yeah, that is totally true, but I kind of think she wants to be best friends with him SLASH adopt him, which would basically leave my sibs and I without a parent because I mean … how do you compete with Pharrell?

Why am I writing about this? Well, my mom is pretty much the most stylish person I know, and I’m not just saying that because she birthed me. Listen, I won’t give away her age because that isn’t proper, but the woman looks like she is in her 40’s and most definitely is not (fingers crossed I got some of those genes). She schools me in shopping, coming home with the coolest pieces that I would die for, for insane prices. I would attempt to snake them from her but oh that’s right, she’s a five foot nothing stick figure and I’m, well, a monster.

I’m not sure when her Pharrell obsession started. She definitely wasn’t getting down to N.E.R.D. years back, and basically had no idea he has his hands in like every chart topping song over the past decade. “Pharrell sings on Blurred Lines … what?!” she exclaimed recently. I think it was when the “Happy” phenomenon hit. She works at a store that plays “trendy-ish” music, so I suppose she heard it there. And then I showed her the music video, which made hearts pop out of her eyes. And every time we are in the car together, as I’m listening to some ridiculous oldies song like “Give Me The Night,” she asks me politely to scan the radio to find her “song,” which means anything and everything Pharrell.

It’s not just his music she likes, though. She’s obsessed with his style. He’s totally her style sensei. Oddly enough, I think they would make a stunning pair of best friends. Don’t ask me why I think that. If Pharrell is as “zen” as everyone says he is, well they would be just like peas and carrots.

My mom: KATE! Did you see the sweater Pharrell was wearing on that music show last night?! I need it! Did you watch it?
Me: What music show? No.
My mom: YouTube it!
Me: Okay.
:::Hours later:::
My mom: Did you watch?
Me: No.
My mom: Come on!
Me: Fine, fine I’ll do it now.
Me: Mom, that sweater is definitely Chanel.
My mom: I NEED IT! We can find a knock-off, right?

That conversation actually happened. And here is the sweater. It’s pretty rad, right?

Now that Pharrell is a judge of the Voice, which is a show my mom and I like to watch together, it’s kind of our thing (cute, right?), the lusting after Pharrell’s style has been taken to a whole new level. Seriously. If people don’t choose Team Pharrell she gets infuriated. “Why would anyone not choose him?! I would TOTALLY be Team Pharrell.” If anyone of you knows the Voice, the “blind auditions” take FOR-EV-ER, and the judges literally don’t change outfits for like four long episodes. While I was drooling over Gwen Stefani’s boots and Gwen Stefani in general, my mom had her eyes set on Pharrell’s necklaces, which again, were Chanel, I believe. See below. They rule. And they continued to tease her throughout all of the Blind Auditions.


My mom: I need those necklaces.
Me: They are cool, but they are Chanel.
My mom: Pharrell and I need to be best friends. He’s just seems so nice. He would just give one to me. He would be like, “here you go,” :::puts imaginary necklace around her neck:::

Pharrell, if you are reading this, which you totally are because psshh why wouldn’t you be, the joy you bring my mother is an awesome thing to watch. To the way she turns up the beat and rocks out in the car to your most recent jams to the way you inspire her style (although I don’t foresee her wearing an over-sized hat anytime soon), it is rad thing to witness. I really hope you are as chill and “zen” as people say … which I believe you are. So be best friends with my mom, kay? You’re a match made me stylish heaven. And then I can steal her Chanel necklaces you give her. BOOM.


No. More. Wire. HANGAHS!

CaptureI am not particular about things. If my manicure is slightly chipped, it doesn’t ruin my day. If my sweater has a pull in it, I will still wear it. And if my shoe has a scuff mark on it, hell yeah I will strut my stuff in them until the cows come home. Shit like that doesn’t bother me. In fact, I trick myself into believing it gives them character.

That is … until I decided to reorganize my closet so I can move my fall stuff in and summer stuff out. No, I don’t keep my non-seasonally appropriate clothes tucked away in a cute piece of Tupperware in my basement. I’m not that organized slash I like all my shit where I can see it. Except my closet is the size of shoe box, so I keep my non-seasonally appropriate stuff in there and my seasonally appropriate thangs on a rolling rack so I still have access to my maxi dresses in case I get an urge to dance in the snow in one.

Since I’ve been a teen, I’ve have an obsession with clear hangers. My mom worked at a clothing store at the time and would come home with barrels of them for me. So from that point on, my clothes would hang on only what you see below. I just love um. They have that little groove so your shirts won’t slide off. They keep the form of your shirts at an unprecedented level of perfection. I mean … does life get better?


Now, some odd years later, things haven’t really changed. Until I started to get some of my pieces dry cleaned, and obtained an even sicker clothing addiction. Which means only one thing … you start to run out of hangers. So every now and then I would say, “hey, these We Heart Our Customers hangers aren’t THAT bad, I’ll just use one until I can get more of the clear guys.”

Over time, more clothing was being accumulated than hangers … therefore I needed more. Everyone said these were the best … the Cadillac of hangers (see below). So I went to Burlington Coat Factory and bought them in bulk. In grey. Why grey? I have no idea.


So when I was moving my summer stuff out and fall things in, I noticed how many damn “We Heart Our Customers” hangers were being used. Too many. Just too many. Too too many. It was like the fancy grey felt hangers had gotten eaten or something, because the amount of wire hangers was staggering. I just … it just … I mean …

And all of a sudden I turned into Joan Crawford. Yep. Had a Joan Crawford moment, kids.


I ripped the “We Heart Our Customers” wire hangers out of my clothing and violently threw them in a trash bag. I didn’t even know where all of them had come from. I truly don’t get THAT many things dry cleaned. Which leads me to believe they have minds of their own and multiply and will one day take over the world. Seriously. I bet they are in my trash can procreating as I type.

Nothing is worse than wire hangers. Joan Crawford was a CRAZY bitch, but she had a point. They fuck up your clothes. Straight up. Your shirts will slide off of them and end up living on your floor collecting dust and becoming a bed for your cats making you exclaim, “hmmm I wonder where my Marc by Marc tee is?”

Dry cleaners, thanks for the free hanger, kind of, sort of, even though I’m pretty sure it is included in the dry cleaning price. And gee golly thanks for saying you love us. It truly is flattering. But my God, you spend all this money to get your clothes dry cleaned, only to take it home on a horrific hanger that you will use out of sheer desperation and laziness. And then wind up turning into Satan, also known as Joan Crawford, when you realize how truly disheveled they make your clothing.

Maybe let’s update this. Clear hangers for everyone!

Real Talk: Bridesmaids Dresses

27-dressesPreface: If I have participated in your wedding as a bridesmaid, or one day you were planning on asking me to be your bridesmaid, this legit has NOTHING to do with you. Your weddings, future weddings were and will be forever and ever lovely and it was an honor to be apart of them slash WILL be an honor to be apart of them. There.

This is about bridesmaid dresses, the bridesmaid dress industry, and the people who sell them. First, and most importantly, what a rip off. I’ve found, that as a seasoned bridesmaid, the minute you walk into a bridal boutique to shop bridesmaids dresses … you are going to get shook down by some bully in a skirt suit who will take her pretty little tape measure and get your sizing completely wrong (which I think is on purpose), but will tell you it’s right because “she’s a professional.” I’m like a size 22 in bridal boutique world … what … the … fuck. Oh also, girls over 5’8 need “extra length” added to their dress ALWAYS, which is a damn dirty lie, too.

Now if you are the type of bride who is in it to make your bridesmaids look like absolutely shit because it’s “your day dammit,” why? Seriously, no one gives a flying fuck about the bridesmaids besides the single dudes at the wedding. Also, bride, are you paying for their dresses? If so, go to town, make them look like a clown school exploded all over them, but if you’re not, that means you’re making them spend their hard earned money, and a lot of it, on an ugly dress they will wear once. ONCE. Is that what girlfriends do to one another? Not in my house. I’ve had the pleasure of being in two weddings where the bride was open to our opinions and made sure the dress complimented each bridesmaids body type. Hell, the last wedding I was in, the bride let us pick out the damn dress. Now THAT is friendship.

As women, dress shopping should be fun. You know what’s not fun? Walking into a bridal boutique where bridesmaids dresses are shoved so tightly onto a rack you literally have to roll up your sleeves and dive in to awful shades and styles until you find a diamond in the rough. The whole experience is pretty heinous, I gotta say.

And why, dear God why, do they only have sample sizes. You walk into Bloomies, Saks, and you see racks and racks of lovely dresses in a multitude of sizes. And if they don’t have your size, they can ship it to you … what?! Some sales person doesn’t get all up in your bidness in the dressing room, literally seeing you naked and strapping you into some weird sample dress that 1,500 other girls have worn and clamping it closed with a binder clip only to get the wrong sized dress to you four months later. Could you imagine falling in love with a Monique Lhuillier dress at Bloomies and having to wait four months to get it?

Brides, think outside of the bridesmaid dress bubble. I know it’s tradition … blah, blah, blah, but it’s 2014 for crying out loud. I’m over seeing the same dress again and again in different colors rolling through my Newsfeed (you know the strapless number I’m talking about, see below. We should all get together and wear these dresses at a party while we drink wine and eat french fries).


I can’t believe I’m saying this, but J. Crew has done some really innovative shit with bridesmaids dresses, because they are legit wearable again, not the whole, “OMG girl, you could TOTES shorten it and wear it again!” Listen, when people say that to me, it makes me want to head butt them … and I don’t do that. You can NEVER alter the typical bridesmaids dress. Why? Because those dresses are made from material that if a bridesmaid got too close to a flame, they would be done for.

Think about a bridesmaid dress as an investment piece for the girls you so specifically picked out to stand beside you as you take a huge and monumental step into the future. Actually get something they can wear again! Dresses should be fun and should make women feel amazing and special … even if it isn’t “their day.” But if you are in it to make them look meh, I have no idea why you would even ask them to be apart of your party, to be honest. It’s just rude and awful.

Now THIS is how bridesmaids dresses are done. BOOM. :::Drops mic:::


Bo Without The Tox

mac-cremestick-liners-side-in-handWhen I think of lip liner, I think 1980s nightmares. I suppose it was because I used to watch shows from the 1980’s growing up, like Matlock, yes, Matlock, and all the women had on what seemed to be really heinous lip liner. So I would sneak into my moms room and try to recreate these ridiculous looks with that I thought was lip liner, but was really an eye brow pencil. Yeah … it was hot.

Lip liner has never been something I have used. When I learned how to apply makeup for the first time, never once did someone hand me a lip liner and tell me the benefits. Even to this day, I’ve gotten my makeup did a considerable amount of times and never once did a makeup artist take a lip liner to me. You can understand why I assumed it was a nightmare from the 80’s since no one seemed to be bringing it back … much like blue eye shadow.

Now, I’m very skeptical when I get my makeup done by anyone. Strictly for fear that they will make me look a hot mess. So this past weekend I was in a wedding and therefore, had to get my makeup did because doing my own makeup for special events makes me sweat profusely. I had seen her work on a few of the other bridesmaids and all of them looked lovely, so I took a deep breath and let her work her magic.

…Until she whipped a lip liner out. It went a little something like …

Me: What is that?
Makeup Artist: Lip liner.
Me: Umm …
Makeup Artist: :::starts applying:::
Me: I don’t really …
Makeup Artist: No talking.
Me: But my lips are soooo dry … uh okay this is happening.

And before you knew it, my lips were lined and shaded in … and then a thick layer of gloss was spread evenly on top (how gross does that sound … my God). I told this woman to make me look as flawless as Kim Kardashian (yes, I really did that. Shame me all you want, the woman has amazing makeup on at all times). I didn’t know that meant Kardashian sized-lips, too.

My lips are thin. Not like freakishly thin, but sometimes when I smile, my top lip goes away. And sometimes I get excited when my gums blend in to my top lip to make it look bigger in pictures. Yep. That happens … sometimes.

So when I looked in the mirror for the first time I was shocked, scared and waiting for my friends to exclaim, “what up Bozo, how’s clown school treating you?” But they didn’t … in fact they were raving about my makeup. When you normally don’t wear a ton of makeup and see yourself all “done up,” it’s a shock, BUT a good shock. Always remember that.

Back to my lips though … my GAWD, I had them! I couldn’t stop staring at them! Who needs a needle filled with Botox injected into your lips when there is this magical thing called lip liner that gives the illusion of a bigger lip. Ta-da! AND … my favorite part … it makes your lip color stay on longer … what?! I know, right?

Lip liner, seriously, where have you been all my life? I don’t normally do this, but I’ll show you the awful pic I took of myself the minute I saw the finished product, I believe the kids are calling this a “selfie” nowadays. I know right, don’t my lips look all Botox-ey?!


The Scarlett B


Photo credit:

For some reason, the moment the season changed to fall, I feel like an angry mob of people who hate Ugg boots and pumpkin spiced everything have emerged carrying pitch forks and torches.

Don’t get me wrong, I loathe Ugg boots and pumpkin spiced everything. It drives me nuts. #CrunchingLeavesInUggBoots makes me want to vom, but that is my personal opinion. If you get down with pumpkin latte’s all day err day, who am I to judge, right? Well this angry mob of basic haters says something different.

Basic Bitch, defined by Urban Dictionary, is, and I quote, “a bum-ass woman who thinks she is the shit but really ain’t.” … … … … yeeeeaaaah … I’m just going to let you take a moment to let that sink in. I wish I were kidding.

When you Google, “being basic,” articles like “how basic are you?” a Buzzfeed quiz, and “50 signs you are dating a basic bitch,” pops up. Well I took that Buzzfeed quiz, kids, and it told me I’m not basic, buuuuuuuut I have some minor basic tendencies. Sorry I watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians and claim my yoga teacher has “changed my life,” and drink vodka sodas because I love vodka, NOT because of the lack of calories … and P.S. I call them vodka clubs, a-thank you very much (P.S. saying P.S. was so basic of me, right?)

Listen, I will never drag a boyfriend to go pumpkin picking with me, and I believe I just donated my last and final North Face Denali jacket to the homeless, but what I cannot understand, for the life of me, is why being “basic” has turned into this awful plague stylish girls do not want to catch. Seriously … in the fashion world, being basic mine as well means you have two weeks to live. It’s the worst.

I won’t lie to any of you (seriously, when do I ever), but when I took that Buzzfeed quiz and it listed all of these “basic” things we should check off if we indulge in, I kept getting more and more enraged thinking, “who would do that!?!? Who truly actually has a brunch club.” It kind of made me want to bang my head against the wall. But then I stopped and thought to myself, “hey, self, I have friends and family who like this shit … maybe I should shut up.” And I did. Well I didn’t, I just kept the thoughts to myself.

We likes what we likes, and sometimes we are afraid of turning into things, like a bitch, our mothers (not me, though, mine rules, I totally want to be my mom … shout out to my ma!), boring, hated, and most recently … basic. But before you pass judgement and decide to not indulge in something for fear you will have to walk the earth wearing the scarlett “B,” think about if you really like it. And hey, if you really like leaves crunching underneath your Ugg boots as you pumpkin pick with your BF/GF who wears a plaid shirt from J. Crew … my friend, go on with your bad self. Who are we to judge.

GOD we need to stop calling each other “basic bitches” because it makes it okay for other people to call us “basic bitches,” and that just isn’t cool. Alright, everyone take some rubbers. (How basic of me to quote Mean Girls, right? See … I’m still breathing)


Things I Don’t Give A Shit About don’t know why, but lately I feel like we (the general public), have been getting beaten with a stick filled with the same pop culture topics over and over again … that really no one should give a shit about. Every time I turn on the TV, scroll through Instagram, go on the interwebs, I’m once again beaten by the same facts over and over again which leads me to say … “I don’t give a shit! Why do you insist on telling me these meaningless things that I don’t care about. Honestly!”

I thought about it and said to myself, “self … I couldn’t possibly be the ONLY one feeling this, right?” I mean sure, breaking news Taylor Swift has a new boyfriend … fantastic. But five days later, do I REALLY still care? No. Did I ever REALLY care? Probably not. Things I don’t care about for $5,000, Alex.

Since I’ve been feeling quite overwhelmed by this fact, lately, I decided to make a list of the topics I just don’t give a shit about in hopes that I will send them into the blogosphere for them to never come back. Psyche … who am I kidding, Mario Lopez is probably salivating right now waiting to blab about them tonight on EXTRA! EXTRA!

So here they are, in no particular order. Call me cynical, call me a bitch, call me rude … call me cranky (okay maybe I am, JUST a little) … but you know you KIND of want to add to this list, right? Come on. Come on. COME ON! Do it.

1. Lauren Conrad. Lauren Conrad’s wedding. Lauren Conrad’s wedding dress. Lauren Conrad’s wedding party. Unless it has to do with Lauren Conrad on the Hills not going to Paris … I don’t want to hear about it, kay?

2. George Clooney no longer being a bachelor. Get over it, no woman can even come CLOSE to competing with Amal Alamuddin. Throw in the towel gracefully, girls.

3. The iPhone 6 and the iPhone watch and everything related to the iPhone 6 and watch and all of their controversies. If I hear, “but it bends” one more time … I swear … :::shaking fist:::: iOS this.

4. Kendall Jenner getting bullied by other models at fashion week because of her “reality star status.” Really? Really? Isn’t there and Ebola epidemic happening? Just sayin’…

5. Taylor Swift trying to be a feminist. I just … no. Stop it.

6. Beyonce Photoshopping her Instagram pics and any other star Photoshopping their Instagram pics. I mean how much time DO you have on your hands to Photoshop your Instagram pics? Granted a minion is doing it for you, but still … someone has to art direct your thigh fat, am I right?

7. That freaking picture of Amal Alamuddin’s wedding dress with Oscar de la Renta in Vogue. Seriously. Byeeeeeeee.

8. Kate Middleton being preggo, yet again, and her preggo style. Nope. Yawn.

9. Any star having a wardrobe malfunction. Really? Selena Gomez’ zipper was down at the airport? Riveting, Guiliana Rancic … simply riveting.

10. Pumpkin flavored anything. My GAWD. Now it’s trendy to make fun of the “basic bitches” sipping on their pumpkin spice latte’s, but I guarantee the woman writing about these “basic bitches” and their pumpkin fetishes has a pumpkin spice candle burning next to their Mac Book Air. BOOM. I can’t wait for the first frost to kill off all this pumpkin bullshit.

I Want To Be North West

PFW Womenswear Spring/Summer 2015 - Givenchy - Catwalk and Front RowThe thought of going back in time and doing it all again, makes me want to run like a bat out of hell. Elementary school bullshit, trying to figure out simple math (seriously, math class used to make me sweat with anxiety), puberty, college, finding a job … yeah um no.

But if someone guaranteed me that I could come back as 1-year-old North West, daughter of Kanye and Kim, I would absolutely give it all up and sit front row at Paris Fashion Week on my “Mommy’s” lap. Okay … that is a little creepy to say. Kim Kardashian’s taas are always out and about with those deep v’s … that may be a little too close for comfort. And I assume her and Kanye as SUPER weird. But I digress.

A lot of people don’t agree with how Kanye and Kim are raising young North. Shocking. My mother, for example, was appalled by the young one wearing a sheer top to the Givenchy fashion show. “Babies shouldn’t wear sheer anything!” she shrieked. And while I slightly agreed with her, I felt like it was tastefully sheer for a 1-year-old. And then I realized how insane the whole convo was.

Listen, mother and daughter outfits aren’t anything new. We’ve all been there … well not me because my mom was awesome and would never step foot in Talbots. But a LOT of people have creepy pics of them in mother and daughter matching outfits. Kim just took it up a notch and decided to rock sheer Givenchy outfits that complemented each other. I mean, I’m okay with it. It’s Givenchy, for crying out loud. And she didn’t put North in sheer pants like she was wearing, did she now? Nope. Because that would be creepy … and weird on a baby.

Now don’t throw shit at me after you read the next statement, but I want to give Kim and Kanye a slow clap for the way they dress North. No pinks, no sparkle, no cutesy Disney characters all over her weird cotton onesy. Just straight up fashion. I adore it. Just because you birthed a female doesn’t mean as parents you need to exaggerate that fact with tutus and pink ponies. My God.

Does it bother me that a 1-year-old has a better wardrobe than me? Absolutely. Not only a better wardrobe, but a wardrobe I couldn’t afford in like three years worth of salary. The fact that this baby slash heiress to the West/Kardashian fortune, is like boys with all of the biggest and baddest couture designers and sits front row at all the best fashion shows in God damn Paris drives me mad. I was lucky if I rocked the latest line from K-Mart when I was her age, for the love of God. Yet this kid drools on Lanvin … literally.

:::Sigh::: I hate to admit that when I saw North sitting front row at the Givenchy fashion show, I secretly wished I was her. And I still do. Mostly for the clothes. Not for the youth. Like I said I would NEVER want to go back in time, even if Yeezus was my Dad. I also secretly wished I could wear leather pants and a Yeezus tour T … but alas I just don’t think I can pull it off as well as her.

Damn you, North West, damn you!

Kanye West, Kim Kardashian and their daughter North West walk to the Balenciaga Womenswear Spring/Summer 2015

Temperature Tantrums

lady-gaga-madThis kind of weather makes me want to bang my head against the wall. Don’t get me wrong, I’m thoroughly jazzed that it is fall. I truly love me some fall. But these up and down temps make me want to punt Mother Nature in the face … just a little.

When it started to take a turn for fall a week and a half or so, I happily started my hunt for my winter wardrobe, because it seems every new season when I look back at my previous year’s wardrobe, I have nothing. (why is that?) But regardless, I bought some light weight sweaters, some pants … and slowly but surely started to put my dresses and short shorts in storage.

But wait, what happened over this past weekend? Oh that’s right, the death rattle of summer. When all I wanted to do was eat chicken noodle soup and douse myself in leather and fur, the temperature spikes to over 80 degrees, and all of a sudden my air conditioning is back on and I’m rocking a maxi dress, craving water ice. What in the holy hell?

Nothing is worse when you wake up and know when you travel to work it will be a chilly 60 degrees, then as the day grows old, the temperature will reach 80 degrees and you are thinking, what do I wear? Over the past week and a half, my closet looks like it got sick to its stomach all over my room because when I get home from work all sweaty and such, I throw on shorts and a tank, then after an hour, I cool off and get a bit chilly and need to change into sweats and a t-shirt. Not to mention dressing for work is impossible. Today I wore a light cotton t-shirt dress with gladiator sandals up to my knee. Umm what?

If only I could do quick costume changes at work for different temperatures. I suppose that is what dressing in layers is for. But how annoying? Coat in the morning when walking to the train in case you get cold. Cardigan at work, since the AC is still on, and it will be cold as balls, and a light t-shirt under the cardigan for when you run errands over lunch and get all hot and bothered.

You can tell I am not the only one confused on what to wear right now. Walking through the city, if you weren’t aware that it was technically fall, you would have absolutely no idea what season it was. Some girls are still rocking short shorts, tanks, and sandals. Other girls don’t give a fuck and are rocking oversized boyfriend cardigans, tights, and over-the-knee boots, and some girls are wearing long sleeved dresses, coats, with sandals (hi, that is me … because I’m confused and rather annoyed).

I personally despise being hot, so I haven’t given my boots their first stroll this season, because there is nothing worse than sweating to death in over-the-knee boots. But quite frankly that is all I want to do. I want to not be a hot, sweaty mess when I get into work and when I get home … and sometimes randomly in between. I don’t want my hair to look frizzy and poofy the minute I step out the door until the minute I lay my head on the pillow. I want over-the-knee boots, sweaters, tights, faux leather, faux fur. I want these 80 degree temps to go back to where the came from. No more death rattle. No more sweating. No more confusion over what to wear.

So if you are suffering because of all this up and down weather nonsense, you aren’t alone, kids, you aren’t alone. We’ll get through this together. Because in a mere month we will probably want to punt Mother Nature in the face for polar vortex-like temps. I mean are we EVER happy?


Umbrella Etiquette


Photo credit:

Umbrellas are things made from Satan. Straight up.

The umbrella I use is one I stole from my mom years ago. It is made by Nautica (fancy, I know) black and red, and the handle looks like at one point it was covered in something sticky and then some weird black substance got stuck to it, and now is covered in this patchy black solid mass. Needless to say, it is a mortifying moment when the handle sticks out of my purse or someone asks me to borrow it to run an errand or something.

Did I mention that one of the metal arms holding my umbrella together is completely exposed, leading me to fear the day that I poke someone’s damn eye out when walking the streets. Which leads me to my next point …

No one knows the proper umbrella etiquette. Listen, I get it, when you’re existing in the city, it is a “go, go go” mentality … and if you dilly dally (yeah I just said that), you will get trampled over by a mob of fast paced cats. Literally. Face down in a puddle. And there is a good chance that something unsavory is all up in there. Mmm hmm. Best keep up.

It gets even worse when it rains because no one wants to get wet, so the pace gets picked up even more. You’re walking down the street in the rain, holding your umbrella, trying to get to point B, when you see someone walking towards you doing the same exact thing. All of a sudden you find yourself in a severe game of chicken thinking, “she’s going to move. She’s totally going to move. Do you see the size of my umbrella? Yep. Moving. She’s going to do it.” But she isn’t. She won’t. You look at the size of the sidewalk, trying to figure out if both umbrellas could fit for a sheer moment in time, side-by-side, but it is impossible. Who. Will. Blink. First.

But no one blinks. In what feels like a slow motion flash, your umbrellas become one, slowly screaming to one another, “nooooooooooooooo,” as you breeze past the girl with rain flying every which way because your umbrella just got abruptly interrupted from its regularly scheduled duties of keeping you dry. I wish I could say this is the only occurrence of a moment like this, but alas, it is only one of many.

People, we all don’t want to get wet. Hence why we are holding umbrellas. We all have places to be, people to see, cocktails to be drank. No one is more important than one another. But when you see someone coming at your holding an umbrella, just like you, make the proper adjustments to not have an umbrella impact. For me I always move because, like I said, I have a sharp piece of metal sticking out of my umbrella and don’t really need to take a person down like that.

Listen, by moving over slightly, you aren’t backing down, you aren’t a wuss or a lesser human soul. You actually rule. The person who doesn’t move, the big almighty street walker thinking they are the shit … suck. Truly, awful people. For shame. Just move. For the love of GOD. It means nothing except you kind of care about the human race, just a tad. Or get poked in the eye by my faulty umbrella … your call.

Umbrellas. The bane of my existence, truthfully. The ones that fit in my purse, all nice and snug are the ones that break, and the over-sized beasts that are trendy and cute are A. overpriced and B. don’t fit in my bag, leading me to carry one more thing I don’t want to. And who wants to pay $50 for an umbrella when you know you will lose it within a couple rainy days.

A piece of advice for me to you, if you are in need of an umbrella and don’t want to pay for one, go to your local watering hole. If you are friendly with the bartender, ask them if they have any umbrellas up for grabs. People drinking equal bye-bye umbrellas. I’m guilty of it. The last thing you want to do when you are half way home, drunk as balls and realize you forgot your umbrella is turn back around to get it. Nope. Not up in here.

But yeah … the umbrella paradise lives at your local watering hole. You’re welcome.

Playing Dress Up As Olivia Pope

Kerry-Washington-Scandal-Prada-Twin-Pocket-Tote-590x366The only thing that has helped me get through this week is knowing Thursday night we all get reunited with the “Gladiators.” I’m going to dress in all cream, pour myself a glass of red wine, and watch Olivia Pope handle shit once again (realistically I’ll be in my shrunken PJ bottoms, mis-matching top, hair in an insane top bun sipping on white wine because I just cannot with red).

I mean, we all wish we could wake up in the morning and be faced with Olivia Pope’s closet. Her coat and bag game is on POINT. Alexander McQueen, Prada, Chanel, Burberry … literally drooling. And how she doesn’t spill said red wine all over those couture cream looks is beyond me.

For those of us who have threatened to skin Olivia Pope and wear her due to our lust for her wardrobe, I suppose our threats have been taken seriously … by the Limited. I was pretty sure the Limited didn’t exist anymore, but alas, I was sorely mistaken. The only Limited I knew was Limited Too, which was my jam in elementary school. Everything from neon tank tops with weird looking Limited Too monkeys on them hanging from trees to feather pens, Clueless style, I owned. I wanted to bathe in Limited Too. But the Limited? That shit made me yawn.

I suppose the Limited has taken a Target-esque approach, much like other retailers have like Kohls and JCPenny’s, to make themselves look “trendy” and “cool.” I’m not like other retailers, I’m a HIP retailer, I’m a COOL retailer (if you get that reference we are officially best friends). But when I think of the Limited, I think of boring black pant suits with thousands of different patterned shirts to wear underneath, and matching jewelry sets. It’s the color by numbers of fashion. Literally, when I would walk past the Limited, I would yawn. The Limited was also apart of the reason I vowed after graduating college that I would never wear a suit (5 years later and still going strong).

As much as I appreciate their attempts at giving us Pope style without the Pope price tag, I gotta say it is way too much like playing dress up for me. When we were little, we all wanted to be Cinderella, right? And the Disney Store made it possible by selling Cinderella costumes and fake glass slippers. I don’t have any interest, as a grown woman, in going to the Limited and buying an “Olivia Pope costume” for $228.

Olivia Pope, the character, is a bad ass working woman. She literally makes the fake president, who is a straight up slore, come across like a smart, intelligent family man. She “handles” pretty much every large and in charge case in Washington, D.C. Hence why she makes large and in charge money to purchase such lust-worthy items like Burberry coats and Prada handbags.

:::Sigh::: I’ll be continuing on saving my pennies and dimes until the day I can proudly march into Burberry and purchase an amazing coat. Until then, I’ll be sitting on my couch, looking a hot mess on Thursday evenings, lusting after Olivia Pope’s wardrobe. But you won’t find me running to the Limited any time soon.

P.S. where does one find a Limited? Do malls even still exist?!

The Makings Of A Timeless Coat

mcx-90-fashion-carrie-bradshaw-sex-in-city-lgnIt’s the first day of fall … hooray! Let’s all go apple picking and dip our entire bodies in pumpkin spice everything!

No. Just. No. Those articles detailing the things “white girls love about fall” make me want to punch pumpkins in their tiny carved faces.

But right now, I want to talk coats. Because this delicious chill in the air that made me sleep like a fricken baby last night is making me want to whip out all of my coats, throw them on the ground, and roll on top of them out of sheer joy and excitement (yes, I’m that much of a freak).

My favorite coat I own is legit seven years old. SEVEN. I got it when I was a sophomore in college at Burlington Coat Factory for a little over $200 for things like interviews and internships … and maybe the potential frat “mixer” that I never got invited to (whomp whomp). The only other coat I owned when I was in college was the North Face Denali. Oh come now, you know you had one, too. I had the black one … and yes, I rocked it with Ugg Boots. You can say I was the epitome of “cool” in the mid-00’s (by the way that is SO bazaar to say).

So why have I had this coat for seven years, and why will I still be wearing it this season? Because it is a little thing called timeless, my friends. It’s long, black, military-esque. Great hardware, great pockets. The lining is completely shot to shit and ripped to shreds, but honestly, who looks at the lining of a coat? Someone could have worn it 50 years ago and not looked out of place, and someone could have worn in 20 years ago and not looked out of place.

There are a few coats every woman should own that will remain in your closet, and your lives, forever. These coats are something you should spend money on, because hopefully seven years from now, you will still be rocking them.

1. Long, black, military wool coat

2. Trench

3. Faux-fur (you’re welcome PETA)

4. Faux leather (again, PETA, got your back)

5. One trendy coat (that you don’t spend as much money on and indulge in ONE a season)

The other coats out there … meh. I mean indulge if you must, but the five above are your simple building blocks to a get coat collection. Trust. You just need to look for the “timeless” signs. Ask yourself the following questions.

1. Would my great grandmother worn this coat back in the day?

2. Would my mother have worn this coat back in the day?

3. How will this coat age (think of fabric, hardware … take a close look at it)?

4. Do I have the means to care for it properly (dry cleaning, storage, etc.)?

5. Will my future self look back at this coat and cringe at its trendiness? Will your grand kids laugh at it?

Coats are the things that make the outfit statement in the winter when you are getting from A to B. Nobody will give a shit if you’re rocking all couture with some trendy monstrosity covering it. Invest wisely.

Me. My Taas. And NuBra.

Screen shot 2014-04-21 at 7.46.36 PMI happen to have a thing for backless dresses. I think it is such a chic way to bring the sexy aspect without letting your taas out and about for everyone to see, or so much leg your vagina is about 10 seconds away from making its grand entrance.

With that being said, if you adore backless dresses like I do, it means one thing and one thing only: no bra allowed. Now, because of the title of my blog, people tend to think I’m a “bra whisperer” or some sort of “bra connoisseur.” Well kids, I’m nothing of the sort. I do get access to some of the finest legit “bra whisperers” on the planet though, who shame me for things like not washing my undergarments properly (apparently throwing your bras in with your darks so they get wrapped around your jeans like a snake isn’t okay), and how I put on my bras (again, slapping the thing on and going ain’t cool). Without them, I would be lost, though.

So when I found an amazing backless dress, I had to go to the experts for some help. Because unless you have bee stings for taas or fake ones that go against the laws of gravity, “free balling” ain’t an option. Free balling certainly wasn’t an option for me. I wouldn’t want to subject the world to that. You’re welcome.

I’m not one to go for the whole “backless bra that you slap on with some tape and call it a day.” Nope. I’ve tried it. Victoria Secret style. It was Satan. And the minute I started to sweat, it started sliding off. Do you know how awkward it is when you are trying to raise the roof on the dance floor and feel the stickiness of tape sliding down off your skin. It ain’t pretty or cool. In fact, you’re screwed. One time I brought masking tape just in case of a wardrobe malfunction. Yes, masking tape in da club. And it malfunctioned. So I spent the good part of the night trying to readjust the backless bra with masking tape in the bathroom. Turns out masking tape doesn’t stick either if you have sweat glans. Oh … and the whole “you can wear it again” thing … is complete bullshit. Just an FYI.

But then I met NuBra. After my previous experience, I was more than skeptical. But I had no other choice but to give it a whirl (there was a bad ass dress at stake). And an amazing “bra whisperer” slash good friend assured me that she wore it on her wedding day and it didn’t move.

So I wore it for the first time this weekend. Gotta say, it was an odd experience. NuBra is basically suction cups on your taas. I followed the application instructions (which were rather easy), and all of a sudden, I was strapped in and ready to go. Well, after I asked my girlfriends if my taas looked weird about 500 times (sorry, ladies). It most definitely didn’t give me super duper Wonder Bra-style lift, but it’s much better than nothing.

Of course the entire night I was waiting for the … taas to drop, if you will. The minute I started to perspire I kept thinking, “here we go, I’ll be in the bathroom in no time throwing this thing away, making me spend the rest of the evening with my arms crossed awkwardly, in a ‘DON’T LOOK AT ME’ way.” But I was wrong, it stayed in place the entire evening. Even during “Shout!” (I was at a wedding, clearly), except I didn’t jump up, jump up and get down. No one wants to see that. NuBra is good … but not THAT good.

So there ya have it. I hope you enjoyed my intimate explanation of my taas weekend in NuBra. I’m just excited that no longer do I have to see an amazing backless dress and be like, “whomp whomp … taas are just too big to free ball. Moving on.” Nope. Never again, I say, NEVER AGAIN!

Third Is The Word

Capture1Preface: I’ve never given an acceptance speech, so I’m going to take the opportunity to do so today … right here … right now. Ahem …

Today is a pretty fantastic day. And not just because it is Friday and not just because it is beautiful outside and starting to feel like fall. But strictly because it is OFFICIAL that Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra placed 3rd for Best Local Blogger in the PHL Philly Hot List. And, might I add, the only fashion blog in the top five. I truly don’t have words for how ecstatic I am … in fact, I just feel like this:

giphyPhilly has an amazing blogging scene. Yes, a lot of talent, but what I love most about it is how supportive we all are of one another. True, I don’t know a lot of bloggers outside of the lifestyle/fashion realm, but the ones I do know, some of whom were nominated for Best Local Blogger as well, are encouraging, supportive, and always willing to retweet or leave a lovely comment on a post. It is such a breath of fresh air and something that makes me honored to be apart of the Philly blogging scene.

I want to sincerely thank all of you who voted. I know it sucks having to give your email address and make a profile and do all of that nonsense and then getting all of those horrid emails (damn you, Philly Hot List :::shaking fist:::) But the fact that all of you suffered through that annoyance to support me and help me to get to where I am today … I cannot thank you enough. Seriously … beyond overwhelmed over here. Talk amongst yaselves …

CaptureI went into this thang with a loose goal of being in the top 10 … out of 96 amazing blogs, and to be the only fashion blog in the top five … well, is something special.


Anywho … thanks to my family, my amazing friends, co-workers, cats, my lord and savior Jesus Christ, my Apple laptop where all the magic happens, and mostly to anywho and everyone who voted. THIS ONE IS FOR YOU!

Freckles McGee

Photo credit:

Photo credit:

We always want what we can’t have. Curly haired ladies want straight hair. Blondes want to be brunette (I mean clearly, it’s the better side of life), and so on and so forth. Luckily in this wonderful age of technology, you can get whatever your hearts desire as long as you have a big ol’ sack ‘o money. Oh, you want straight hair forevah? DONE! Sick of your hair color? Wah-laa, you’re brunette! Wish your taas were a little more voluptuous? Taa-daa (no pun intended …okay maybe a little)!

Except if you have freckles. I have freckles. I have HAD freckles since I was a wee one. And I’ve loathed their circular existence for as long as I can remember. Don’t ask me why, but I would see girls, probably mostly my dolls, with this amazing porcelain skin and think to myself, “why do I have this nonsense all over my skin?! And why isn’t there some laser that exists to remove them?!” Yes, at the age of 5 I was already contemplating plastic surgery before I even knew what the hell it was.

There was one freckle I wanted to take down the most. One that sat in the middle of my nose … that happened to be bigger than the others. Yes. An over-sized freckle that lived on the center of my nose. One that my family was obsessed with and had given it a proper name of “Emily.” A freaking name, for a freaking freckle. They would come over and say things like, “there’s Emily!” and boop me on the nose, when all I wanted to do was try and violently scrub this “Emily” off my face.

Cindy Crawford didn’t have freckles. Madonna didn’t have freckles. Paula Abdul didn’t have freckles. The Fresh Prince of Bel Air didn’t have freckles (see how I’m dating myself here?) But I did. “Emily”, this over-sized freak show of a freckle in the middle of my nose, was all I could see when I looked in the mirror. I wondered to myself, if that is all I can see, I guess that is what everyone else will hone in on when they look at my face. Even though my family adored it like it was a member of the family, I was certain kids would find some way to ridicule me for it. Hell, I was already ridiculing myself for it.

Flash forward to present day, I am still the curly-haired girl with freckles. Except now I own a really amazing straightener and realize that freckles are basically sun damage, and everyone has them in some way shape or form. I just have more of them because my Irish genes dominated over my Italian ones.

My freckles really only make themselves known when I sun bathe (which is rare, and now usually consists of me wearing SPF 70, a hat, and sitting under an umbrella), and live in small colonies on my shoulders. In the winter time, you can barely tell I have them, and sometimes think the Gods actually heard my plea when I was 5 years old for Cindy Crawford-like non-freckled skin.

And yes, “Emily” is still there. Although, I never acknowledge her presence. We are frenemies, if you will. And she usually gets covered up with Laura Mercier foundation and Mac bronzer. My family, to this day, still talks of “Emily” like she is a part of the family. Even though I’m not her biggest fan, in my 27th year of life, I don’t find myself wanting to take a laser to her as much, simply because it is a part of who I am.

We all have shit we would love to change about ourselves. Whether it is as simple as a hair color, or a birth mark, or something more severe … we all carry something like that with us. But at the end of the day, that thing we so desperately want to change about ourselves, makes us who we are. And sometimes ya just gotta own it, freckles and all.

Do I Look Fat?

anigif_enhanced-2570-1399938997-41_previewThere is nothing worse than having a friend stand in front of you asking the following questions:

“Do I look fat?”
“Can you see my muffin top?”
“Does this dress flatter my figure?”
“Do I look like I gained weight”

It’s a shitty situations for both parties, as a matter of fact. As the person asking the questions, if you are anything like me, you want the cold, hard, honest truth because you don’t want to walk around looking like an asshole. For the person responding to said questions, well, you are stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Even though your friend may be asking for the cold, hard, honest truth, does she REALLY? For me, even though I do ask for the truth, I know deep down I would be absolutely devastated if my friend did tell me I look like I gained weight or that indeed she can see my muffin top. And that friend runs the risk after speaking said truth of me turning into Satan, spiraling out into a haze of self loathing and labeling her the worst friend on the planet who thinks I am fat.

Ahhhh females, aren’t we AMAZING?!

As females, we have days where we feel awful about ourselves, whether it is brought on by PMS or just having an “off” day … it happens. For example, yesterday I found myself in a dressing room, sweating to death, trying on dresses whilst feeling completely bloated and disgusting. The last thing I wanted to be doing was trying on dresses, but alas I needed to her ‘er done. Luckily my best friend came with me for support and opinions.

Nothing I tried on wow-ed me. In fact, I don’t think I would even be wow-ed if I was trying on couture since I was feeling straight up like this:

24zhab9So I was relying on the reaction of my best friend. You can tell when something looks good right away. It is an immediate “YES!” “PERFECTION” “SOLD!” If the next sentence is, “wweeeelll :::circles around you:::, do you own Spanx?” it is a no go. The worst thing you can do is lie to someone whilst dress shopping. In fact I have the sickest lie-dar on the planet. There are simple signs to looks for. The corner of their lip starts to curl, their eyes will get big, they may start playing with their hair. Listen, I know, you don’t want to hurt your friends feelings. I get it. You are a good person. But there are nice ways to do it without being like, “you look disgusting, take that off.”

“That style just isn’t working for you, let’s try something else more flattering.”
“You have such great legs, we need to find something that accentuates them more!”
“That dress is something a hooker would wear, take it off, you are better than that.”

And so on and so forth. What I am saying ladies, if you ask your friends to give you the cold, hard, honest truth, don’t get pissed off when they give it to you. You asked for it. If you are asking for the truth, but really fishing for compliments, that is just an unfair game to be playing. If by asking, “do I look fat,” you really want validation that you are thin, I mean … just stop.

But to the person having to give the cold, hard, honest truth, there are ways to sugar-coat it without being like, “meeeeh ya definitely look like you gained 10 lbs,” all the while destroying your friends hopes and dreams and potentially your friendship. Just don’t lie. For the love. It isn’t cool to let your friends walk around like assholes. And lie-dar exists. You think you’re being coy, but, indeed, you are NOT.



Dresses, Dresses, Where Art Thou Dresses?

Photo credit:

Photo credit:

What’s the age old saying, “a watched pot never boils.” Well, yeah, the same goes for shopping when you are looking for something specific.

Say you are looking for a red leather crop top (bare with me), and you go out to hunt for that one and only red leather crop top … I guarantee you, you will not find it. It’s just how the universe works. You will find everything else under the sun during that hunt, jeans, leather jackets, spectacular statement jewelry. All things fine and dandy … but just not in the budget … because God dammit, you are in need of a red leather crop top (don’t ask me where the red leather crop top came from … it manifested in my brain and … well … wah-laa).

My frustration is stemming from the fact when a girl needs a great dress … they can never be found. At least that is how the cookie crumbles for me. Any other random time in life when my day planner has tumble weeds rolling across it, I stumble across the most drool-worthy dresses that make me crave someplace fancy to go. Do I buy them? Absolutely not. Something shiny will catch my eye, and since I have no place to go, the shiny thing wins. And then there are the times, like right now, when everyone and their mother is having an event slash getting married, and the only options that I have in front of me are to wear are my birthday suit (gross) or a dress I have worn about 15 bazillion times. Yawn.

Sure, I could Rent The Runway. I’m a HUGE fan of Renting said Runway. It is pure genius … IF you only have one event to go to in that month. Unfortunately for me (I mean yaaaaaaay weddings), I have a bazillion, like I said. So Renting the Runway just wouldn’t be a financially smart move. I’m in the market for a new fancy dress, anyways. A girl should invest in at least one a year, right? And lucky for me, all events I have will be with different people. Therefore they will NEVER know I wore the same dress a bazillion times … that is unless they are reading this, well, then …. hey, ya got me. Give me a break, what do I look like, Paris Hilton?

If only I could find said dress :::sigh::: Especially after seeing all the magic during NYFW and now LFW, I want something spectacular, something different, something that doesn’t have a DVF price tag. I’ve gone to Nordstrom, Nordstrom Rack, Zara (which had some awesome dresses, but everything I liked was in white, and that is a HUGE no-no whilst attending a wedding), and yeah … yawn central. Everything is so cookie cutter. Short, strapless, crew neck, a little leather, a little sparkle. Literally have seen it a million times.

Lesson learned: When you see a good dress that makes you swoon and fits you like a glove, no matter what you have going on in your life, buy it, for the love of God. So you don’t find yourself in these situations like I’m in, banging your head against the wall, and contemplating going to stores you would never step foot in only because you have run out of options. “Oooh I wonder if Talbots has any hot looks?!”

What Anna Says Goes

annawintour_getty_650145a1After watching Anna Wintour answer 73 random questions, which to the normal person would be exciting, but to her looked truly painful, I got to thinking. Wonder if Anna Wintour asked me to do something?

Now, I’ve never met Anna Wintour, and I’m not sure Caroline Wozniacki has either. Who knows, they could be wearing matching BFF bracelets for all I know. But according to an article, Anna Wintour told Ms. Wozniacki (who is a Danish tennis player … it’s okay, I had to Google her, too) to cut her hair. Really? Cut her hair?

Alas, Caroline did it. She got a hair cut. Why? Because Anna suggested it. My mind exploded. You should only get your hair cut if you want to, or have such bad split ends you need to, not because a powerful stranger told you to do so, right? And how insulting. Why don’t you just tell me I look like crap instead of dancing around the obvious. I was outraged, thoroughly.

And then I remembered … it wasn’t just a powerful stranger that told Ms. Wozniacki to get her hair cut. It was Anna Wintour. The most powerful and most influential woman in the fashion industry. With that being said, she knows her shit. It’s not like your Aunt June from Nebraska who always liked you with a bowl cut.

So then I put myself in Caroline’s shoes. If I got the pleasure of sitting next to Anna Wintour during fashion week, and she actually acknowledged my existence … after I tried to inconspicuously take a selfie with her in the background all the while nerding out, I would almost instantaneously become her bitch. Why? Because it is Anna Wintour. If the woman “suggested” I rip off my dress because it was so ugly her eyes were beginning to burn, I would rip that baby off like it was put together with velcro. No ifs ands or buts. It would be my pleasure. And only because I would have the comfort of knowing because Anna suggested it, I would be applauded for it, instead of laughed off the fashion week runway.

Basically, after a lot of thought and contemplation … I would most likely do whatever Anna Wintour told me to do. Dye my hair blonde. Shave my head. Wear hot pink all day errday. Like the pavement in Times Square. Sign me up. Why? Because well … A. I would be slightly scared of what would happen if I ever disagreed with her and B. after years in the industry, and months and months of putting together a pretty rad magazine … ya gotta trust the woman … unless she asked me to lick the pavement in Times Square, then she truly is a sadistic witch.

Bad Juju, Be Gone

Photo credit:

Photo credit:

I am, truly, a very superstitious person. I knock on wood, throw salt over my right shoulder, I never count my chickens before the hatch … it all just freaks me out.

But the worst is when you buy something and come to find that it is a hex. Now I know you are probably thinking, this chick is crazytown, which I totally get, I think that about myself, sometimes, too. But I have to admit, there are a few pieces of clothing and accessories that I refuse to wear because something always goes wrong when I wear them. Hence they are a hex and should be burned … but are too pretty to be set ablaze. So I just keep them in my possession and stare at them longingly.

Most recently it has been a pair of shoes. I won’t blow up their spot, because truly they are so pretty and so fantastic … and I covet them. But in the two times I’ve worn them, everything has gone to shit.

For example, one of the biggest wardrobe malfunctions I have ever encountered, leaving me basically naked for the evening, happened when I rocked those shoes … or well, attempted to rock them. THEN an opportunity that sent me to the moon and back with happiness unraveled before my eyes whilst wearing them. When I got home from said opportunity unraveling, I threw them against the wall … hard. Like really, REALLY hard. It felt good.

To the non-superstitious person, there is no correlation. They would still rock these amazing shoes until the cows came home. For someone like myself, they are dead to me. I’m not saying these shoes caused all of these bad things to happen. In fact, maybe they have no involvement what-so-ever. The fact is, the idea of walking this Earth in said shoes with all that bad juju surrounding them, and with the potential for other things to go to shit … doesn’t seem like something I’m down for.

Unfortunately it isn’t just the shoes, I have really nice pieces of jewelry I refuse to wear … or outfits that traditionally bring bad things to my life that now hang in my closet neglected and probably a little dusty, all because EVERY time I wear them, negativity follows. I know, I know … #SuperstitiousPeopleProblems, waahhh, boo-frickity-hoo, but it sucks when you pour your hard-earned cash into your closet only to find a black cloud follows said piece.

Weird, right? I know … I should probably see someone about this. They are inanimate objects, for crying out loud. But regardless, no one wants to rock something that reminds them of truly unsavory memories, right? Or with the potential of a black cloud to follow. Better safe than sorry is what I always say.

:::Sigh::: I should call a priest.

Me, Myself, And A Wardrobe Malfunction

Jennifer-LawrencesWhen it comes to packing for a long weekend, or an event, I always pack a backup outfit. Even if I’m dead set on what I’m wearing, I always have something else to fall back on … God forbid. Except … this weekend.

After work I was headed to a friend’s house to get dressed for our other friends bachelorette party. Now, because I hate lugging things around town, I decided to only pack the outfit I was going to wear because it was my black leather pencil skirt, new shoes (which I wrote about like 15 times last week) and a simple black lace tank. In the words of “Yonce,” it was “flawless.” That skirt is hands down is my favorite article of clothing because A. I got it for a ridic price at Loehmans (RIP) and B. it fits me like a glove. So why would anyone need a backup outfit when dealing with such perfection … right?

A glass of wine down and a few moments of relaxation, I decided to start the dreaded “getting ready” process, which usually leads me to start sweating profusely and getting extremely anxious (hence why I only go to dive bars now where sweats are totally acceptable). “Da club” outfits stress me out. The hair, the makeup, the “do I look fat” questions … oyyy.

So I put on my black lace tank, shimmied up my black leather pencil skirt, awkwardly reached behind me back to zip it up, and realized I had gotten it caught on my black lace tank. Shit. Zipper up: nothing. Zipper down: nothing. So thankfully the bride-to-be was sitting right there, so I called her in for assistance.

The worst possible thing you can hear when someone is zipping you up is “shit.” And alas, that was what I heard. “Umm your zipper just broke,” she exclaimed softly for fear rage may travel through my body making my head explode.

Me: What … no … stop … what?
:::Moves to the mirror to see the damage:::
Me: Fuck.
Friend: Let’s just find some pliers.
Me: PLIERS?! I’m trapped! I can’t even get this thing off of me!
Friend: We can fix this. Let’s just shimmy it over your head.
Me: ARFGHSDKGHSK :::Fiddling with the zipper:::

And that is when the handle of the zipper (probably not the proper term for it, I’m aware) broke off. And that is when, out of sheer rage, I ripped open the zipper like the Incredibly Hulk. Leading my friends to consider fleeing for safety.

So there I was, standing in my favorite black leather pencil skirt that was just shot to shit … with absolutely nothing to wear. Nothing. Besides what I wore to work, which was a stupid cotton dress, when all of my girlfriends looked like they were going out to dinner with Carrie Bradshaw.

Moments like that, you’re hopeless. Literally. Screwed. Do I run home, which would take me time, or do I go buy something quickly, which means I will only be shopping for need instead of want, and I probably won’t really like it. Do I show the world my birthday suit? Or better yet, do I go “Carrie” style and start destroying and killing everything in my path?

As much as I wanted to go with the later, I took a deep breath and decided to work with what I had … AKA my friends closet. Not much more you can ask for. Hence why having really good girlfriends who know you well enough to just start throwing her black dresses at you until you find one you like and fits is SO very important in this life.

So my friends, lesson learned. Shit breaks. Shit goes to shit. It happens. But there is always a solution. Wardrobe malfunctions happen … even Nicki Minaj knows that. You just need to take a deep breath, maybe chug some alcohol (if you are of age) be resourceful … and pray you are your girlfriends you are with are the same size.

For those of you concerned (I know you are secretly), my black leather skirt is currently at the dry cleaners getting a brand new shiny zipper. We will be together again this Friday.

Style Stud: Bus Stop Boutique

logoAs a tall gal, it has taken me a VERY long time to embrace sky high heels. I would always admire them from the sidelines. Maybe purchase them and just gaze longingly at them in a glass case. But only recently did I rock them with zero fucks given.

But even if you don’t care, standing next to a 5 foot girl, as a 5’9 girl wearing 4 inch heels .. is super awkward. I end up resembling Gigantor and in an effort to make fun of myself before anyone else has the opportunity to, I will stomp around making growling noises (I’m normal, I swear).

My dream has been for there to be a middle ground between amazing stilettos and kitten heels, so I can still feel like I’m wearing big girl heels, but not looking like the damn Jolly Green Giant whilst standing next to my teeny tiny friends. But alas, none can be found, unless you like Easy Spirits … which no … just … no.

Enter Bus Stop Boutique, stage right. We fell in love on Instagram (I feel like I should make up a song about this), when I saw my fantastic friend Sarah (yes I spoke about this earlier this week), rocking a fierce pair of heels that I needed to have. I made her take me to this mystical place where I knew there was just something special about the shoes.

If you live in Philly, congrats, now go to Bus Stop Boutique immediately. If you are looking for a cool pair of shoes, something out of the ordinary and want ace customer service by the lovely Elena (owner of Bus Stop Boutique), bring it on down to Queen Village.

But in all honesty, the reason why I fell head over heels (no pun intended) for this boutique is because it catered to the tall girl. Yes, they have stilettos and insanely cute flats, but they also have the rare and illusive mid-size heel … aka a tall girl’s dream. You can still strut and be sexy, but not turn into a sky high beast.

I would like to thank Bus Stop for treating my tootsies like a queen and for hooking me up with a pair of heels that make my feet feel completely and utterly fancy. Sometimes we need an extra special pair of shoes to get us from A to B … and this is the spot to get um, ladies.

Now indulge with me over just a few pairs of shoes I’m drooling over for fall …






Cat Calling Your Clothes

pantsoffIf you are woman, you’ve been cat called in some way. For me it is usually overly cocky construction workers telling me to, “smile,” which makes me turn into Satan. But either way, there will forever and always be those gross men in this world that think it is okay to compliment a woman by screaming awkwardly at her on the street. “YO BA-BEEEE, BRING THAT OVER HERE TO DADDY.” Oh yes, I forgot, let me swoon, twirl my hair, and bring “that” over to you. Which is my fist. To your balls.

And listen, if you haven’t had the pleasure of being cat called, consider yourself lucky. It is just straight up embarrassing and doesn’t make you more of a woman or validate your “hotty status” in any way shape or form.

But I realized something over this past weekend. I found myself in Zara, drooling over their fall line and twirling around saying, “it’s too good … it’s all TOO good!” with stars in my eyes. Especially when I came across this amazing motorcycle jacket (see below). It was straight up sexy … I had to have it. But I found myself verbally harassing the inanimate object for no apparent reason:


“Look at you over there, you leather temptress.”
“You need to come home to mama.”
“Oh baby … bring that over here and be mine.”

Umm yeah … awkward as shit. I’m very much aware. But when I fall for a piece of clothing like I did for this motorcycle jacket, it is love …pure, unadulterated love. And I feel very much the need to express that love … by acting like a buffoon on the street ogling ladies and making them blush with embarrassment.

Listen, if I were this leather motorcycle jacket, I would have totally slapped me across the face. “FRESH! :::Slap:::” But my mom always told me to invest in a good,expensive piece only if you love it so much you could kiss it. And I suppose I took that a step too far. Unfortunately my leather love muffin is still sitting in the store as A. they didn’t have my size and B. a $300 leather motorcycle jacket just isn’t in the budget unless I wanted to live out of it for a few months.

I’m not saying it is okay for assholes to whistle at ladies on the street and embarrass us profusely, but I AM saying it is okay to cat call your clothes … because that only means you love it so much you could kiss it.

Bitch, I’m Stealing Your Look

CaptureWhen in elementary school, or middle school even, sharing a look with a friend was completely okay and insanely cool. Much like “On Wednesday’s we wear pink,” I would call my best friend up and exclaim, “tomorrow let’s wear white crew neck Gap t-shirts and Gap boot cut jeans!” (Yes … I actually literally did such a thing) And we would walk down the halls thinking we were the bees knees when in real life we were the biggest bunch of clowns that had ever existed.

Even if I saw a fellow classmate, you know one of the “cool” girls, rocking a piece of clothing or a pair of shoes that I coveted, I would have no qualms going out, buying them, and then sitting next to the girl wearing the same thing. I saw nothing wrong with it.

Nowadays, in this place called “adulthood,” that shit don’t fly. If you go out for drinks with a friend and find you are wearing the same thing, it is mortifying. Simply because well A. you look like you’re auditioning for Deal or No Deal, and B. all night you will deal with drunk assholes slurring being like, “jjjjuuusssguyys twinsssooorr ssssumthhiinn”?

And in the office when you walk in wearing the same thing as a fellow employee, you smile and exclaim “twinsies!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” and maybe take a pic and post it on social, but deep down, you know it sucks and is uber annoying. And not because you think you’re the most original person on the planet by wearing a black maxi on a Monday, but strictly because you are an individual who detests every five seconds hearing, “omg Susie in Accounting is TOTALLY wearing that outfit, too. You guys should take a pic.”

But this weekend I found myself falling back into my elementary school ways. Scrolling through Instagram, I stumbled upon the most perfect pair of heels that ever existed that my friend Sarah had just purchased. Drool dangling from my mouth I commented, “I want to go to where those shoes are.” And like that I had started the “bitch, I’m totally going to steal your look” process, something I hadn’t done since I purchased the same pair of Puma slide-on sneakers as the coolest girl in the 8th grade.

The difference was … I asked. I asked my friend Sarah if it was okay. Yes it is a free country and yes I had every right to purchase said shoes without her blessing, but to me, fashion is sacred. When you buy something as fantastic as these heels were (see above) you do so because you adore them and can’t live without them and find them to be something special. By not asking her if I could steal her look, I felt like I would be destined to strut around in them with some bad ju-ju. You know, falling face first into a puddle, the heel cracking off and spraining my ankle … normal stuff.

When I asked her, which felt like I was proposing marriage, her response was quite refreshing … “I take it as a compliment when people want to steal my look, go for it, girl.” And then I jumped up in mid-air and ran off skipping and kissing said heels. No that didn’t really happen, instead I kept asking “are you sure, are you sure, are you REALLY sure?!” until I was REALLY sure she was going to hit me.

So I bought the shoes. Now we are shoe twinsies … we should take a pic and post it on social (psyche). But no in all seriousness, it is normal to covet another person’s look. I do it all the time. Strangers on the street? Bitch, I steal their look all day errday and never ask. “Excuse me kind lady, may I go to the store and buy those shoes you are wearing, pretty please?” Umm no. But when it comes to friends, co-workers, your dog walker … you ask. Because that is the right thing to do. Otherwise you are tacky, my friend, straight up tacky. Admit that you envy their look and want it so badly you can’t stop drooling. It will make their day AND you’ll get something you desire out of it as well … without any bad ju-ju.


What I Learned This Summer

67a4c8077fa9b247b48b74915c649fbcDude, it’s Labor Day weekend … what the eff. As everyone is getting ready to get their best festival gear out for MIA Festival, or hit the beach one last time, or wear their white pants until they fall off ONLY until Labor Day, though (which is a bullshit rule that makes no sense), I find myself getting all reflective and shit. I think it’s because when I left my house this morning, that awful chill was in the air that still gives me “back to school” anxiety … even though I’ve been out of school :::mumbles::: years. You know what I’m talking about. I always remember having to write the “here’s what I did this summer” essay … which I secretly loved, because I was a huge nerd who loved writing prompts/still do. “I went to Florida with my family and it was fun.” Good times. Good description, self.

But, oddly enough, I do think reflection is important … or maybe it is the fact that I just started yoga again and I’m drinking the kool aid … either or, either or. As trivial and silly as the things I learned this summer are, I do feel it is important to write them down … strictly so I can look at them 10 years from now and ridicule myself for being such an asshole.

So with all of that being said, I hope everyone had a lovely summer, and if you are anything like me, you are really to kick its ass out of town so we can embrace the deliciousness of fall fashion. Until then kids, have a fantastic Labor Day weekend, be safe, be smart … wear white until the cows come home. And, oh yeah, ‘MERICA!

1. Canadian tuxedos (all denim errthang) makes me way happier than I should get and are shockingly chic

2. Leather is okay when it is about 80 degrees, but you WILL get swamp ass

3. One piece bathing suits are no longer for prudes and squares (I want to thank Khloe Kardashian for this one)

4. High tea is an event that every woman needs to attend, at least one (but it is expensive and you will need a cheese steak after)

5. Reading is a great escape from all the bullshit you are suffering through (I clearly forgot this and was reunited on my vacation)

6. Birch Box is something everyone needs to subscribe to, because it always arrives when you need it (bad days, PMS, just hating life in general)

7. To be kind, because you have no idea the battles and struggles other people are facing

8. That I loathe flip flops, but would sell my mother for some great vintage jewelry

9. That adult temper tantrums exist and can be brought on by awful pants and lack of air conditioning

10. To never go to trendy pop-up anything in the city because you will end up wanting to punt it (Spruce Street Harbor, I’m looking at you … bathroom passes … pssshh)

Drool With Me Now: Fall Fashion 2014

image1xxlOkay, I know we have a few more days until Labor Day, and I promised after bitching about the Polar Vortex last winter that I would do nothing but embrace every drop of sunshine and twirl in myriads of maxi skirts … but, yeah … I just made my first fall purchase. I couldn’t help it because I’m THAT ecstatic over summer getting the eff out of town. And yes, I truly intend to make out with said bag when he arrives at my doorstep, that is how much I adore him.

I’ve just had enough of sticky subways, makeup dripping down my face, and having to apply deodorant like three times a day, it’s unbecoming. And I want to punt my summer wardrobe. Listen, I’m not the girl who makes “mood boards” or “inspiration boards,” I have Pinterest for that shit. But the drool coming out of my mouth over fall fashion is excessive, to say the least. So I just had to share with you what I’ve been daydreaming about, right? Clearly.

1. Leather: Leather shoes, leather motorcycle jackets, leather shorts, leather underwear, leather all day err day (calm down, PETA, it will be faux or “hemp” leather … whatever is the politically correct way to rock leather)

11P10FBLK_normal2. New Over-The-Knee Boots: Oh yeah, they are still completely relevant and nothing brings me more joy than walking down the street in hooker boots “Pretty Woman” styley.


3. Capes: Ya gotta bring the drama every now and then, and quite frankly I’ve been lusting after them since Lupita dropped the Cape bomb at the Golden Globes last year.

Capture4. Fuuurrrrr: I already own a faux fur jacket … and that clearly was my gateway drug to more fur, because now all I want to do is add to my collection. And quite frankly the fur they showed during fashion week is on POINT (seriously PETA, settle, I couldn’t bare to skin my cat and wear her, so this, again, will be eco-friendly fur … chill)

30C01GBLK_normal5. Removing Color Completely: Not that I wear a lot of color to begin with, but I’m really going to make a conscious effort to only wear neutrals. Black, white, beige, maybe a camel. Then if I’m in dire need of color (yawn), I’ll throw in something like a merlot-colored tote bag or something.

2014-Black-White-Outfit-Combination-Ideas-136. Bucket Bag: I’ve been on the fence about these bad boys, as I couldn’t decide if this was a bad 80’s trend revamped or a classic staple. I’m still not quite sure, but anything stylish that I can carry my entire life in is something I want to take a spin in.

23015591_927. Chelsea Ankle Boots: Swoon. The boot game this season is fierce, and where to begin can seem overwhelming. Welp kids, you start here, with the classic Chelsea boot in black. God speed after that.

Capture8. Extreme turtlenecks: If the Farmers Almanack is right, this winter is going to be freaking cold. True … turtlenecks have been connected with prudes and squares in the past, but the dramatic thick turtle necks that I literally could hide in and hibernate is something I can get behind.


9. Novelty Prints: I gave up ironic t-shirts years ago, even though I did own the typical “Everyone Loves an Irish Girl,” shirt. Yes, I’m sick of seeing the overly ironic “Celfie” shirts, but I kind of like what some designers are bringing to the table … especially under an over-sized mens blazer. Mmm scrumtilescent.


10. Textures: I’m very basic when it comes to fabric … I’m mostly a cotton gal. That “Fabric of our Lives” commercial should totally check out my closet, although I refuse to sing. But this season I want to dip my feet in the season of velvet, silk, satin, lace, and everything in between … hell, throw felt up in this piece.

Karl Lagerfeld Gets An Internship

CaptureSince I was 18, all I wanted to do was work at Vogue … said every girl who has ever watched Sex and the City. But no seriously, it was all I want to do with my life. I freelanced my ass off until I found myself a Junior in college, in Philly, realizing my Vogue dreams were in the wrong damn city. So I decided to find the “Vogue” of Philly … which was Philly Style Magazine.

When my interview got scheduled for an editorial internship, I immediately had an anxiety attack that all of the Natty Ice in the world couldn’t fix. Devil Wears Prada had just come out and all I kept thinking about was this is a style magazine, in a large city, and a Miranda Priestly-esque woman wearing couture will surely turn her nose up at my discount garbs and dismiss me. I was a college student, for crying out loud, I could barely afford Forever 21. Seriously … Forever 21 was my couture. All I had was bedazzled halter tops, ugly boot cut jeans, and kitten heels I would wear out to “da club” and sweats. Stay classy.

In this case I reference the only source I trust when it comes to timeless fashion … enter my mother stage right. She took me to Forever 21, even though I was thoroughly against it as I was certain four editors wearing Helmut Lang would start hysterically laughing at the poor quality of my clothes. But luckily my mom had/has a sick gift for finding cheap clothing that looks insanely expensive. We settled upon a pair of high-waist (literally came up to my taas), black flared pants that were to die for, which I would pair with a black button down puffy capped sleeve shirt I had from Old Navy. The whole, “but mom, I need Chanel,” shit didn’t really fly over well.

The day of my interview I threw my portfolio in my black over-sized tote … from Forever 21 … which looking back was heinous with horrifying “gold” hardware, and went on my way. When I walked into the all white room, basically almost every girl looked like Lauren Conrad from the Hills (the Hills was basically the Bible for college girls at this time … see below). Me … I looked like Karl Lagerfeld. I had completely forgotten that Lauren Conrad was basically Jesus for girls 18-25 years old and everyone wanted to not be the “girl who didn’t go to Paris.” Fuck.

CaptureLong story short, Karl Lagerfeld got the internship over all the Lauren Conrads … okay maybe a few Lauren Conrads made the cut, too. Turns out the editors were more interested in my writing then my outfit. Take that, Devil Wears Prada. Real life wins in this case. AND I didn’t have to get coffee for anyone once OR get their kids an unreleased copy of the Harry Potter book. Boom.

Internship style is insanely tricky, kids … there is no perfect formula. My advice would be definitely to own your style. That is important. Your style … not trends (there is a distinct difference). You want to be you and express who you are, not rocking cheetah print rompers with your bra straps hanging out because some style blogger told you to. At the same time, remember you are in an environment with people who no longer beer bong Natty Ice or go to ABC parties (oh yeah … I know what that is, kids). Don’t be that girl/guy that the older folks in the office talk shit on and ask “where your pants are,” behind your back.

Ps. I totally said that about an intern this past year.

Dude, Who’s My Designer?

Homer-BlankStare-1Giuliana Rancic: So let’s hear it … who are you wearing?!?!
Celebrity: :::Crickets:::
Giuliana Rancic: :::Confused look:::
Celebrity: Umm …
Giuliana Rancic: … does it start with a J?
Celebrity: :::Frantically looking for assistant to find the name::: yeah umm … give me a minute … JENNIFER GET OVER HERE. JENNIFER. HELLO. JENNIFER.
Giuliana Rancic: :::Awkward::: Alright … let’s get Jennifer over here. Hey Jennifer, girl!
Celebrity: What? Who? Jay Mongel? No, that isn’t it. Wait. Oh yes. Right. Herb Jones. Yes. That’s it. I’m wearing Herb Jones.
Giuliana Rancic: Thanks so much … now over to you Ross in the skycam.

Seriously, though? The amount of celebs at the Emmys who didn’t know the designers they were wearing from shoes, to earrings, to clutches, to dresses was astounding. And quite frankly, for no apparent reason, pissed me off thoroughly.

I suppose I put myself in the shoes of a designer, regardless if they are established or up-and-coming. Mostly I felt horrible for the up-and-coming bastards. Could you imagine? Holy shit … Julia Louise Dryfus’ stylist called you and wants clutch options for her Emmy look. I would die. I would probably embarrassingly enough pee myself with joy. And then turn on disco music and start jazzercizing in place.

You either make a clutch to match her dress or send her options … and then she chooses one. You think, “this is it. I’ve made it. Here I am standing next to JLD, and we are officially best friends.” You will be her Kate Moss to a Marc Jacobs. Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. No longer will you be that poor bastard in the billowing over-sized shadows of Michael Kors, you will be known, dammit, KNOWN.

So you gather your crew. Host an Emmy watch party. Pop some popcorn, pop some bub, pop your booty with joy. And wait for the moment when JLD graces the red carpet. Okay, it’s here. It’s happening. JLD is chatting with Guiliana Rancic … she’s putting her clutch on the freaking nonsensical “clutch cam,” and the moment arrives. All of a sudden things start slowing down in only a way that  makes it prominently known something insane is about to happen.

Guiliana Rancic: So tell us who made that amazing clutch!
JLD: Ummm … wait … hmmm … uhhh … fuck … JENNIFER!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! You fall to the ground in actual pain caused by the carelessness of a celebrity. “She wanted MY clutch. She hugged me. We shared laughs together. I was making her a friendship bracelet for fucks sake.”

When people see something shiny, they want it, they need it, they just have to know everything about it so they can either, A. max our their credit cards to buy it, or B. daydream about it in a series they like to call “my life would be so much better with …” So when you are getting interviewed, remember the little people, would ya? Who is that clutch by? HERB JONES, ladies and gents, HERB JONES (I really feel like the fake designer known as Herb Jones would bring a lot to the table, don’t ya think). Then everyone with a line of drool coming out of their mouths will Google and oogle all things Herb Jones. Then Herb Jones will be famous … kickin’ it on a yacht with P. Diddy.

So for shame, celebrities, for forgetting the people who made you look so fantastic. And, oh yeah, let’s not forget about your damn stylists. When do you ever hear a celeb give props to their stylists. Umm never. We aren’t idiots. We know “you did NOT wake up like dis.” The jig is up, friends. Ya had help … now maybe throw up your thanks, just a little.

Oh you want to know what I’m wearing today? Dress by Zara, gladiators by Coconuts, necklace by the lovely and talented Nikki Virbitsky. That is how you DO. :::Drops mic:::

Consciously Uncoupling From Carbs and Vodka

Screen shot 2014-08-25 at 5.31.05 PMWelp, I’m back from vacation. And it was lovely. Truly. I’m refreshed, rejuvenated, creatively stimulated from my brain sitting on a shelf for the past week, and I’m no longer Casper the Friendly Ghost status. I’m more like his fourth cousin second removed, Slightly Toasted Marshmallow. What I’m trying to say is, I no longer look like I have a vitamin D deficiency, ya dig?

But when you look deeper inside my soul, and my veins, you will find something way less pleasant. Way less … healthy. And that is because vacation means carbs … and copious amounts of vodka. Seven days of, “ooh a frozen pizza for breakfast … SURE why not!” “Cocktails on the beach at 11 a.m. that can’t stop won’t stop until I crawl to bed at 1 a.m.? Bring it on!” For seven days. I know, I know … poor me, my life is so terribly, waaah, boo frickity whooo … but talk to my body, who wants to go on strike. It hates me … thoroughly. It wants to cut me.

If you don’t believe the horrific state I’m in right now, let me tell you a little story called I only peed once on an eight hour car ride home. Just once. That is how significantly dehydrated I am. The only hydration I received whilst on vaca was when I switched to vodka and club. Literally, I think I drank 14 bottle of water today and I still feel like my eyes are roaming around the desert with no water in sight seeing mirages of dancing pieces of bread.

So because I can’t keep my eyes open and I’m lethargic, and cranky, and my skin looks like something that roams around the hallways of a middle school, and I feel like I’ve gained straight up 15 pounds … I’ve made a decision. It has been a hard one to make, let me tell you. And slightly disturbing to even contemplate. But carbs, vodka and I … need to consciously uncouple. It’s time. I’ve always wondered why this Atkins character would invent such a torture-some diet that cancels out all carbs. Now I get it. He must have gotten back from a family vacation and felt like a bloated whale and said, “ENOUGH!” 

I’m not one for diets. Or working out. Or being active. Or wearing those crazy ass “waist trainers” that Kim Kardashian has been seen using (ps. what in the name of all crazy is that shit about?) I’m just not. To sound like an obnoxious, valley girl for a hot minute (we all get one minute in life to sound like such hideous fools), like :::twirls hair::: shopping is my cardio :::pops gum:::. But when you feel this gross and unhealthy like I do right now, you do drastic things that you would never thought were possible. Like MAYBE just MAYBE not ingesting so many damn carbs.

At the end of the day, ladies, it is about being healthy. Mentally and physically. Pizza at all hours of the day and too many cocktails equals death. Yoga and veggies equals fresh to death. I mean, I hope so. If I don’t start feeling better on top of giving up carbs and vodka, I may or may not shank someone. Just sayin’.

Man, if everything goes according to plan, I will look like a super model just in time for the polar vortex to rear his/her/shis ugly face so I can layer my six pack under inches of wool. Screw that, if I have a six pack, I’m rockin’ a bikini in zero below weather. What what. #Classy


Old School Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra Week!

vacationcover2Want to know why I woke up with “Vacation” by the Go-Go’s stuck in my head this morning? Because that is where I am headed tomorrow … what what :::Raises roof awkwardly:::

As much as I would like to continue sending you my snarky, sarcastic, honesty- and lerve-filled posts on fashion, lifestyle and what-have-you throughout the next week as I kick it on a beach, I’m going to try the impossible and “disconnect.” Even just saying it gives me anxiety. I mean what is life like without social media and having your phone glued to your body?! ACK! How will I make my Selfie Book!??! (Kidding … clearly). And not posting to Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra for an entire week kind of makes me feel like I’m leaving it with a shady babysitter as I go off and gallivant. But … I’m going to give it a whirl.

The good news is, I’ve deemed next week, starting tomorrow actually, Old School Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra Week! What does that mean? Well let me explain! I went through a solid three years of content and pulled out my favorite seven posts, all the way from 2011 to present day. I’ve outlined the posts below, and check Twitter and Facebook for live updates throughout the week, and use #OldSchoolLSIASB to join in on all the throwback fun. I hope you enjoy reminiscing as much as I did … I had a little too much fun doing it, actually.

Sadly I must bid you adieu at this point, kids. I hate goodbyes! Have a lovely week and enjoy all of the old schoolness happening on Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra as I lay on a beach at an undisclosed location (don’t want any freaky stalkers … because clearly, people are dying to stalk me) and try not to turn into a lobster. Yes, I will be that girl on the beach with a hat, under an umbrella, with SPF 70 on and will probably forget to rub it in thoroughly in awkward places … like my cheek. Hot, right?

We’ll return to our regularly scheduled program Monday, August 25 … now let’s awkwardly raise the roof for funsies again … because … why not!

Saturday, August 16: Is Your Dress TOO Short?!

Sunday, August 17: Hangover Chic

Monday, August 18: Beyonce is Brainwashing Us

Tuesday, August 19: Even Can’t Handle The Missoni Collection

Wednesday, August 20: Just Say No: Drunk Online Shopping

Thursday, August 21: A Day In The Life Of A Woman Wearing Spanx

Friday, August 22: Why I Would Be The Worst Victorias Secret Model

Ye Old Art Of Waxing

sq_carell_chest_wax_300x300I’m about to embark on a week filled with sun, sand, and cocktails … lots and lots of cocktails … at odd hours of the day … when you are properly at work … mwahahaha! (Sorry, I had to).

But as I’ve been making mental lists and starting to pile up things I would like to bring with me (#overpacker), it also has brought something to my attention that not a lot of people feel comfortable talking about … but oh yeah, we’re going there. That would be waxing, kids … waxing.

When you go on a beach vacation, you basically have it all out there for a week, as bathing suits leave little the imagination. Even if you’ve moved to the one-piece (which, for the most part, I have), there is a lot of skin you’re showing … a lot of skin that if you’re a lady, shouldn’t be covered in hair. Hair is gross … woof.

I’m a waxing neophyte. The only thing I’ve ever gotten waxed is my eyebrows … and that took me years to commit to. I was so scared of the pain I walked around like bushy mcbusherson … it was hot, let me tell ya (I was also 13, give me a break, that is what those awkward years are for, right?)

But now, it is all about getting your bikini area waxed. And to that I say … bitch please. I’ve heard horrific stories about a thing called a “Brazilian wax.” Perhaps they are urban myths, but I would rather not pay a total stranger to make me get on all fours, ALL-FOURS, naked, and have them take a burning hot substance to my lady parts. It just doesn’t sound pleasant … to be completely honest it sounds nuts. Call me a Granny all you want, I’m here eating Werthers Originals and clutching my handbag for dear life. I keep it real. The stories I’ve been told and the screams I’ve heard at salons from women enduring the Brazilian are something made from nightmares.

I realize the “Brazilian” is the extreme end of waxing. But the PG-rated wax, the ones where I hear you put your legs in stir-ups and still have a stranger get all up in your bid-niss whilst being half naked … hmm yeah, still not my cup of tea. I’m not a prude. I’m just not down for paying for embarrassing torture. At least give a girl a shot of vodka before getting that personal with her, my God.

Sure, dealing with your “bikini area” yourself isn’t pleasant either, but at least you are alone in your shower. Sure, the end result usually looks like you have tiny red spider bites all around your woo haa or a weird rash … but quite frankly I would rather that than, again, paying a stranger to be all up in my bid-niss making me turn and twist in weird positions for the sake of removing ever stitch of hair. And if anyone questions my weird rash or wonders if I have an STD, I will be HAPPY to explain to them my theory on waxes. Yep. That is sure to bring all the boys to the yard.

You know what, your gyno should give you a free wax after your annual. I would be okay with that. He/she, a trained professional, has already been down there exploring, poking and prodding … why not get a complimentary wax after it all. I mean the whole visit is rather unpleasant to begin with, why not get a little “spa-like” treatment afterwards to heal your wounds of being completely violated for the sake of lady health. Just a thought, gynos of the world, just a thought.

I know, I know … hundred and thousands of women get waxes every year. I bet if you’re reading this and you’re into bikini waxes you think I’m the biggest wuss in the world. And to that I say … you are correct, sir. Unless I’m going to go live in a nudist colony on planet “that would never in blazing hell happen” I will most likely never get a Brazilian. I may try a regular wax just for funsies, though. But someone better get me drunk before hand. That is an order.

Be Kind


Perhaps it was the outpouring of love and memories on social media, or how he was such a large part of my childhood (I’m pretty sure I watched Aladdin, Mrs. Doubtfire, and Jumanji until my VHS broke), but the passing of Robin Williams struck me hard.

This ridiculously talented man, who made so many laugh and brought so much joy to so many lives found no other answer but to take his own life. I had the same reaction when Alexander McQueen died. And it truly hurts my heart.

Alexander McQueen, Loren Scott, and now Robin Williams. I read a tweet by Maria Shriver yesterday that said, “be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” And nothing has ever resonated more with me. One of my main messages throughout a lot of my posts is showing kindness to your fellow person. Share compliments and stop being “mean girls,” for the love of God, because unfortunately, that shit still happens after high school.

That snarky email you want to send today for no reason, that eye roll, that silence in the bathroom instead of saying “hi,” or “wow you look nice today,” because you feel too awkward to say something, your crutch of “resting bitch face,” your neglect for the people around you … today I challenge you to make a change. Because one compliment, one acknowledgement, one smile, can bring an uplifting moment to someone who needs it more than you will ever know. Hey, I’m guilty of all the things I just listed. Hell, I eye rolled an innocent mother on the train today because her toddler was screaming bloody murder. But truly, we are all human. Perfection isn’t obtainable. And we need to remember this and change.

I know I rarely do “real talk” on Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra, but depression is present more than you think … and it’s unfortunately deadly. It is also something I care about deeply. That woman you work with who you think is the biggest snobby bitch in the world who you can’t stand, may be dealing with an unimaginable battle, whether mentally, physically, at home, or elsewhere. Put yourselves in other peoples shoes before you judge and take the “mean girl” route. You have the power to help others in need, whether you know they need it or not.

I beg of you to be kind today … and hell, most days. Step out of your awkwardness and remember you’re dealing with human beings. Talk to the girl you loathe. Smile at a stranger on the street. And if you yourself are suffering, please know there are a myriad of people who want to help you and want to listen, myself included.

Robin Williams will be a massive presence who will be missed dearly. But your presence is just as important. Know that and never forget it. Take the proper steps to get help if you need it.

How Long Does It Take You To Get Ready?

audrey-as-holly-in-sleep-mask_with-cat-on-backI remember when I was in high school, I would spend hours planning my outfit for the next day. By the time I was finished it would look like a bomb had hit my closet as I was trying to concoct the “coolest” most “outlandish” outfit possible. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like waking up not knowing what I was wearing. The horror.

Flash forward :::mumbles::: years later and it’s all about sleep. Nothing is more important to me in the morning than sleep. I don’t care if I have to wear a belted trash bag to work … mama needs her ZzzZzz’s. It takes me a solid 15-25 minutes to get ready in the morning, maybe 30 if I fall asleep whilst taking a straightener to my hair (hey, it has happened … mostly when I’m hung over).

But seriously, to the women that take over an hour to get ready in the morning, what in the name of sweet Jesus are you doing? I’m not shaming your or trying to make you feel bad. Hey, we all have our rituals in the morning. And sometimes those rituals involve massive amounts of sleep, but to each their own. A well rested lady is a lovely lady, that’s what I … always … not … say … :::Shifty eyes:::?

So I’m here to help the ladies who take an extreme amount of time to get ready in the morning. No longer will your significant others toe tap and complain about your beauty regime, because all ladies hate that shit. Dudes will never get it that it takes time to make us look like decent human beings in the morning. I happen to look like a gargoyle when I wake up. So, regardless of how long it takes you to get ready in the morning, you have every right to tell you significant other to shut the fuck up. Oooh you showered and had to put gel in your hair, maybe a little moisturizer? Boo frickity hoo. And if they gasp in horror, tell them Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra told you to say that.

Anywho, back to what I was saying. Follow these steps for a morning that will have you out the door in less than 45 minutes. Your life will be changed. Think of all the time you will have left over for activities, and by activities I mean sleep.

1. Don’t make breakfast. Don’t even turn your coffee pot on. In fact, don’t even go downstairs, that is where temptation lies. Throw a Special K bar in your purse when you’re running out the door, get coffee at work and call it a day.

2. Shower the night before. I’m telling you, it makes a difference. When you wake up, wash your face, put some moisturizer on, and start making yourself not look like a gargoyle.

3. Wash your hair the night before, too. I mean this is the true time suck. If you wash your hair and blow it out, all you will have to do in the morning is touch it up with a flat iron or curling iron. Boom.

4. Get a lucid idea of what you want to wear the evening before. If you’re like me, you have a Clueless-style catalog of your favorite outfits in your mind (or perhaps I’m just a freak, either or). Just make sure the outfit is clean and ready to go, and factor in some time to steam said clothes need-be (although if you can rock this out the evening before, too that would be splendid).

5. Keep your makeup simple, for the love. You aren’t going to da club, you’re going to work. Moisturizer, foundation, concealer, a little mascara, eye liner, blush, fill in your brows … and ta-da. Most likely you won’t look like Kim Kardashian, because she has a team of professionals that surround her at all times … and I’m pretty sure it takes hours to make her look like that. It just isn’t reality. The irony, right?

6. Don’t you dare groom yourself in the morning. Nails, eyebrows, waxing, shaving, plucking, smoothing, extracting, exfoliating all needs to be done the evening before. Otherwise you’re screwed. Have fun getting up at the crack of dawn, kids.

7. Keep your hair simple. If you did all the hard labor the evening before, all you have to do is touch it up, or throw it up, or add a little wave. We aren’t going to prom, we are going to work. Keep your eye on the prize. Why do you think they invented sock buns? I bet it was invented by a broad who hates getting out of bed in the morning, I’ll tell you that much.

8. Keep your accessories organized. If they are a jumbled mess, that is an obvious time suck. I keep my necklaces/bracelets/etc. right next to where I do my makeup so I can be thinking about what I want to wear with said outfit. Grab it. Throw it on. And wah-la, I’m accessorized.

9. Take a good amount of time for your teeth. Seriously. Dental care is important, coming from a person who has had some issues. Brush, gargle, floss, water pick … do your thang with this one, kids.

10. Absolutely no social media. Disconnect. 100%. Take this time to meditate or something as you get ready. No tweeting, updating your status on Facebook (OMG you guys, trying out my new NARS lipstick this morning, what do you think? #PoutyMcPouterson), Snapchatting (is that the next thing the kids are doing?), Instagramming, texting, or taking selfies. For the love of God … no selfies. Truly, no one cares.


Drool-Worthy Beach Kimonos, it’s true, I haven’t taken a “beach” vacation in years. So you can clearly understand why I’ve been going on and on for the past couple of weeks about flip flops and one-piece bathing suits and sunshine and unicorns … oh my. Yes, I’m thoroughly pumped.

And since I haven’t been on vacation in some odd years, I clearly needed to re-stock up on the “summer essentials.” 70 SPF (not trying to become a hot wrinkled mess), bath suits that aren’t like string bikini’s because, like, no … and swimsuit coverups. Which leads me to my newest obsession in life … kimonos.

Listen … I have scoured the interwebs for awesome coverups, and nothing compares to the coverup kimono … they are rad. If you’re going to the beach anytime soon. invest in one ASAP. They are so fierce (like Kim Kardashian fierce … and yes, I just called her fierce because her style is insane … come now, you have to agree), sexy, and uber chic. Who wouldn’t want to float around a beautiful beach with your sheer kimono flying behind you in the wind. I mean … hi Beyonce, what up.

Even more good news? They are all on sale right now (and if they aren’t, well screw that, it’s basically fall … give me a break). I just purchased this one from H&M on sale for $17. But sorry kids, they are sold out. Whomp, whomp.


Beach kimonos, they are so hot right now, beach kimonos. Here are some of my faves …









Flip Flops … Yawn.

flip-flop-for-the-fischers-001I don’t think I’ve invested in a pair of flip flops since I was in college, and they were used strictly for shower shoes. Now I know, people will contest that a pair of flip flops defines summer and is a staple that every woman should have. To comment back on that statement, all I have for you is a big ol’ drawn out yawn. I know. I’m a freak.

There’s a reason why I haven’t purchased flip flops in :::mumbles::: years. They straight up bore me to death. And the sound they make when you walk is ridiculously annoying. Nothing makes me want to take a nap more than standing at the “wall of flip flops” at Old Navy as women excitedly snatch up every color of the rainbow. How do you choose a color?! Seriously. All you have to work with is a color, since, really, there is nothing much more to them, and quite frankly I don’t want to stand there having an anxiety attack over what color blue to buy. And then I realize I loathe color and call the whole thing off.

Unfortunately I find myself in a predicament where I need to invest in a pair of flops :::sigh::: In 2 weeks I will be going off the grid in an attempt to relax on vacation. So I’m trying to make that week as stress-free as possible. If I’m running to the beach, need to take the dog out, want to go drunkenly dance somewhere other than my rental house, a pair of flops sounds like a good idea instead of spending time putting my gladiators on (although I covet them). But can I tell you, my search for a cool pair of flops has been nothing but an annoyance.

All of them are so basic, or have some weird ugly design or have a 3 inch platform, or say some awful shit like “Hottie!”, or are waaaaaaaay over priced, again, for a thing of rubber on my feet I’m using to walk on (Havaianas, I’m looking at you). If I’m going to spend $45, I’m going to buy a pair of gladiators, not some yawn-worthy pair of flops I will probably end up burning by the end of summer. I’ve literally scoured all of and every other “trendy” site for an outlandishly cool pair of flops for a decent price, and they cannot be found. Like can a sister get a pair of flops with studs or skulls on them, or something?!

True, my search wasn’t a total bust. ModCloth is on their game with cool flops, but alas, my size was out of stock in all of the flops I desired. Besides that, the only other ones I fell head over heels for, of course, were the Valentino rockstud PVC thong sandal. Literally drool-worthy. But if I won’t spend $45 on a pair of flops, I sure as balls won’t be spending $295. Seriously, like I know you’re Valentino and all, but come now. They are damn flop flops.

I’m torn on what to do and running out of time to make a decision. Do I cave and just buy the most basic flop I can find, and deal with the yawning and bordem, or do I stick to my guns and just continue to rock gladiators to the beach … which, I imagine, will be uber annoying. Or who knows, maybe I’ll become one with nature and not wear any shoes. OR, become a total princess and wear heels to the beach. What do you think?

Listen, if you know of a place were I can find a sweet pair of flops that won’t drain my bank account, send that info my way as soon as humanly possibly. Until then, my search continues.


Style Stud: Jinxed Philly

outside2Hi, my name is Kate, and I’m a vintage jewelry addict.

No I’m serious … I have complete vintage jewelry problems. You can tell by the ridiculous overflowing amount I have in my bedroom. I know, I know, I could have some other truly disturbing and life threatening vices in my life, but still, an addiction is an addiction. At least with this one my body is decorated amazingly at all times.

Meet Jinxed … the best Philly vintage store (in my opinion) AND my all-time favorite dealer of vintage jewels. At any given weekend you can find me there, face down in a pile of awesome necklaces, trying to figure out how I can financially afford 10 of them. But the reason why it is so tantalizing and addictive … is because the price is always right. $15 for a choker? $20 for some awesome weird looking statement piece that happens to look like the Philadelphia Flyers symbol? Umm hi, you’re mine.

I’ve always been a girl who would find her accessories at places like Burlington Coat Factory, TJ Maxx, Forever 21 … because they secretly had/have some awesome pieces, you just have to look hard and be patient. And if you’re laughing at me that I ever bought jewelry from Forever 21, laugh again, friend. I actually have some fantastic pieces from like six years ago. I call it F21 vintage. Their jewelry is definitely shit now, but back in the day, there were some wow-worthy pieces, let me tell you. You just had to take care of them … which I did :::hair flip:::

I find something so interesting about vintage jewelry. The history, who owned them back in the day, how they got to the point of me holding them and lusting after them. And, hello, they are one-of-a-kind. Okay maybe they aren’t really … I’ll never be sure, but you probably won’t see some random gal at the bar wearing the same necklace as you if you happened to score it at Jinxed.

:::Sigh::: I must really like you people for telling you my vintage jewelry secret … so … you know … you’re welcome. Feel free to say hi to me on Saturday afternoons … I’m usually the girl holding a myriad of necklaces contemplating which to buy, and how I can have them all … and which organ I can sell to do so.

Check out some of my Jinxed scores below:




Down With Plus Size

CaptureI was watching E! News the other day where they were talking about this stick figure model who is considered “plus size.” And then I kicked my TV in, set fire to it, and ran out of my house screaming madly like a crazy person. No. That didn’t actually happen, but you understand how frustrating that is to hear, right?

What the hell, society? Seriously. How sick is it that this woman (shown to the left) is considered to be “plus size.” And quite frankly, who makes these decisions? Huh? Some big shot at some corporation got together with the “board of big shots” and decided, “yes … let’s teach the women of our country that being frail and freakishly thin is the chic decision to make … no matter what health complications come from it.” (Ps. I image them all to be wearing top hats, smoking pipes, and all having handle bar mustaches with curls at the end … and monocles. Definitely monocles are involved.)

No no … don’t you dare take an interest in good food or cuisine, ladies otherwise you will become “PLUS SIZE!” DUN DUUUUN DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN! :::lightning bolt and bats flying about::: They are treating the term “plus size” like it is the black plague that shows like the Twilight Zone would cover. Oh no, don’t eat that cupcake or the Plus Size Plague will get ya! Run bitches!

In all seriousness, this needs to stop. It’s a damn size, and you know what? No ones business. How about that. Do you tell people how much money is in your account? Or how much money you make a year? Or how many people you’ve slept with? Then you don’t need to disclose your size in clothing.

I’ll come out and say that the size I wear is totally considered “plus size.” If I wanted to take an interest in modeling, I wouldn’t be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Cara Delevingne or Kate Moss, nope I would be on the D List runway with the “plus size” models. The only celebrities at the fashion shows would be like reality stars, Bret Michaels and Fabio. Woof. But the funny thing is, most women, the normal ones who are healthy, work out, and indulge in the goodness of life, are considered “plus size.” And all of a sudden makes all of them, including me, spiral out thinking, “I’m not good enough, I’m fat, I’m ugly, I have rolls, no one will ever want me.”

Well screw that. Every woman’s body is different. And that is what makes every woman awesome. We need to embrace our size instead of fearing that we will have to walk around with the scarlet “Plus Size” strapped to our asses. And those big shots with the pipes, top hats and monocles, really need to re-think this whole “plus size” business. Sizes are sizes. Numbers are numbers. Just because a size goes past a certain number and is two digits (gasp) doesn’t mean you need to make us out to be freaks of fashion nature, alright?

Down with the term “Plus Size,” I say. Burn it at the stake!


Photo credit:


64857-610x610-1328126070-primaryI’m not a huge fan of graphic anything. I think Juicy Couture and Urban Outfitters ruined it for me back in the day (although I totally had an “everyone loves an Irish girl” shirt, but can safely say I never had “Juicy” across my ass). I’m more of a straight forward kind of gal, leave the quotes and bold words for Twitter and Instagram … or a blank wall, not my choices in fashion. Like, for example, I was walking through the city last night and saw a girl wearing black short shorts that said “I love skulls” across the ass. Like why?

As I went from working in suburbia to a city transit commuter over the past year, I have adopted a love for tote bags. Reason being, I no longer have a car to stash all of the necessities for the day ahead, like a change of clothes in case I am going out after work, different shoes, makeup, a book, etc. Now, I need a bag that lets me carry my entire life without looking like a straight up bag lady … Mary Poppin’s style, if you will. I want be carrying a damn floor lamp and not have anyone know AND look super chic doing so.

I used to roll my eyes at canvas totes, probably because it reminded me of something my aunts would use at holiday functions to haul in all the delicious foods they made. They weren’t a statement of style … they were a statement of functionality (yawn). But not anymore. I gotta say, the tote game has been kicked up a notch this season … graphically speaking.

Now, there is a fine line between graphical totes that are acceptable to carry around. If it says something like, “HI HATER!” or “Ain’t No Wifey,” I will most likely light fire to it instantaneously. Just stop. No one cares if you’re trying desperately to be “gangster” and feel the need to express your teenage angst via your tote. Just stop. Sit this one out.

Luckily, this season, I have seen some really clever (and chic) graphic totes that are not only outlandishly cool, but a total conversation starter. And if you can’t tell the different between an acceptable tote and a non-acceptable tote, step outside of yourself for a second and picture someone else carrying that bag. If you don’t think, “man what a douche who is trying too hard,” it is good to go. Otherwise, run … RUN FAST!

To get your TOTES inspired (see what I did there … I’m so cool), here are some of my faves for the fellow bag lady, like myself.

Street Glitter Gallery’s …


West Elm’s …

img34cMarc Jacob’s …


ModCloth’s …


Lulu Guinness’…

50005291_3K Is For Black’s …


Bringing Back The One-Piece


Photo credit:

I blame teenagers for giving the one-piece swimsuit a bad rep.

Think about it. Going down the shore with your friends, sans parents for the first time in your life … boys to flirt with, sun to soak up, and most importantly, boys to flirt with. So no one had any time for a one-piece. What are we five with cut little cut-outs in the back or on a damn swim team? No … girls wanted to show off the goods, bring the boys to the yard (minus nips and va-jay, of course). You weren’t anything unless you were wearing a ittys bittys teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini, or something of the sort.

But somehow this mentality was carried on into adulthood, and I am very guilty of this. As I got older, the more I detested the idea of a bikini. I would sigh, stomp my feet, but end up buying one anyways without even considering a one-piece … because clearly that meant I wasn’t “sexy”. Sure, I could have worked out, ate right, got some side abs going on … but instead I wore a mou-mou until I wanted to tan, where I would lay completely flat, remove said mou-mou awkwardly and blend into the sand in my stupid bikini, so no one could see how undefined my stomach truly was. All of this lead me to loathe going to the beach, by the way. How silly, right?

I’m going to say something right now, and it will probably lead to several women throwing stuff at their computer screens or tablet screens … but I’m willing to take that risk. Brace yourselves, kids, are you sitting down? Ahem … most people … don’t look good in a bikini. There. I said it. Now everyone calm the eff down and let me explain, won’t you?

You really have to be 100% comfortable in your own skin to rock a bikini and rock it right. If you aren’t comfortable strutting around buck ass naked like you own the world, then I doubt a bikini is the right option for you. If you are, congrats, rock that shit. And you know what, there is NOTHING wrong with not being comfortable walking around naked. Hell … I’m not. It doesn’t mean you’re fat, or out-of-shape, or ugly. It means bikini’s are the devil. No article of clothing has the right to make any woman feel this way! Now, let’s burn them! Who’s with me!?

Besides lighting fire to these bad boys, there is a truly brilliant solution to this problem. A simple, easy solutions that will make all of us stop hating going to the beach and wishing death upon those stick figure models who look so damn perfect in a string bikini (ps. unless you are 100 lbs with no taas, or happen to have fake taas, string bikinis won’t work … it’s total discrimination, I know. I happen to have larger taas and they just don’t work). The solution is finding a different style of swimsuit … taa-daa! There is a whole world of swimwear that will make you feel sexy, cool and confident and that doesn’t mean you have to show off 95% of your epidermis. Sometimes, the less skin you show, the better. Leave a little the imagination … ehhh?! And no … I’m not talking about this … calm yourselves.


Photo credit:

I’m not saying don’t strive for something. If your goal is to rock a bikini hard, do it. My God, go for the gold. But I am saying as a group, we should stop shaming ourselves because we can’t fit in to Gisele Bundchen’s bikini. I’m sorry … it’s just unobtainable. Real life doesn’t have Photoshop. God made us all different and fantastic in our own ways. Find a style that works for your body. So what if the world can’t see your damn belly button. The important part is a swimsuit that compliments your body in the best way possible. And yes, one-pieces can we sexy. Trust.

Here is the proof, kids.






JETS by Jessica Allen





Are You Sure Those Are Your Pants?


Photo credit:

I’ve always heard stories about people going to work and then realizing that A. they aren’t wearing their own pants or B. that they aren’t wearing any pants at all. Okay, maybe B. is a drastic exaggeration, but it falls in line with my assumptions that these people were straight up mad. How the hell could you not be wearing your own pants? Who are you? Seriously. Get help.

Welp … the saying is true, kids. Thoust shall not call the kettle black … or the pot black … wait. Oh shush, you know what I’m saying. Let’s bring it back to a time last week when I got up in the morning, took my black skinny jeans off the hanger and thought I had gained 100 pounds over night.

Now, anytime a gal puts on skinny jeans (or guy, I won’t discriminate if you get down with ball huggers), there is a little dance involved whilst putting them on, especially if you just washed them. You pull them up halfway, do a little squat and shimmy, pull them up a little more, shimmy shimmy shake, then bring it on home and pull them all the way up with three mid-air jumps, and a bit more shimmying (this time it’s just for funsies). This is the life of a skinny jean wearer, am I right?

Well on this particular morning, I slipped on my black skinnies, and by the time I got to the second shimmy shimmy shake, I realized they weren’t fitting right. Now I base my weight on how my clothing fits. If it isn’t tight, it’s right, if it is, well, you need to lose weight … for SHIZ (see what I did there? Ehhh?!).

All I could think was, “did it happen finally?! Have all those years of eating carbs and potato products finally caught up with me!?” Literally buttoning these suckers was the saddest moment of my life. Like how could I have let this happen?! They buttoned, so that was good and all, but were they comfortable? Umm negative. I think I still have a button imprint under my belly button a week later. But typical me, I was running late, so I threw on an oversized shirt so no one could see my protruding muffin top, and went on with my way thinking about how obese I had become overnight.

The entire day I kept fidgeting in them, trying to pull them up in an effort to make them more comfortable and tolerable, but alas there was no rescuing my suffocating stomach. The worse part was I had to return something at Zara and the last thing I wanted to do was enter in to one of my favorite stores in my sad condition. But I went anyways, and since they were having a mega blowout sale I HAD to try stuff on, of course. Duh.

After acquiring way too many pieces of clothing to try on, I entered the Zara fitting room, questioning why I was subjecting myself to this violent form of torture. My damn pants didn’t fit me anymore. I had no right to enter into any room unless it was a Jenny Craig waiting room.

Now, if you are familiar with Zara fitting rooms, you know everything is very white … and VERY bright. You can’t hide from yourself in these bitches. So I went on my way, trying stuff on, trying not to make eye contact with my grotesque body. But when I went to put my ill-fitting pants back on I realized something: Wait. When did my black skinnies get so faded? And Jesus, when did the back pocket start to look like it is about to fall off? And OMG, when did I fall and rip the knee on these guys? What … is … HAPPENING! Then all of a sudden it hit me.


If I could have done a touchdown dance in the Zara fitting room, I would have … but the room was too restricting. Turns out I didn’t gain an excessive amount of weight overnight, I’m just a dumbass who keeps her old skinny jeans that should be thrown away still on a hanger in case of a “what if” moment (yes, I’m THAT psychotic).

So as you can assume, I’m super relieved and have since thrown those devil jeans away. The bad news is I have not the slightest idea where my real black skinnies are. If you have any information about their whereabouts please contact me ASAP.

Cheese fries for all!


HELP! I’m Dieting!

CaptureIt’s sad but true :::sigh:::

I can’t say I’ve ever dieted in my life. And it isn’t because I’m naturally thin and gorgeous (I mean if you are I want to personally smack you), but it’s because, basically, I love carbs … mostly potato products. And if I couldn’t have carbs, I would probably stab someone. My whole thing is if my clothes fit and if I feel healthy, then there is no need to diet. I don’t own a scale, and when I go to the doctor and, against my will, they have to weigh me, I don’t look … after begging them not to weigh me in the first place (I always lose that battle). It is all about how you feel, not about the number you are.

I’m subjecting myself to this dieting nonsense because in a mere three weeks I will be on a beach for the span of five days … a place I haven’t seen in quite some time, also known as “vacation.” And the idea of putting on a bathing suit makes me want to light fire to them and frantically run away into a dark cave and hide in the fetal position until the next snow storm.

Could I stand to lose a few LBs? Sure, who couldn’t. But here is a fun fact about me: I hate gyms. Loathe them. I’ve tried, really I have … numerous times in fact. But they skeeve me. People are always trying to talk to me, asking me when I’ll be done the machine, telling me my shoe is untied, hitting on me. And seriously dudes, why? I don’t go to the gym to bring the boys to the yard, okay. In fact I’m probably in a disgusting t-shirt, weird sweats with stains on them, hair in a bun, and no makeup … sweating my balls off. Oh yeah … let me get some o DAT! Freaks. So yeah, gyms are not an option for me. EVER. Unless there is one in my house … real housewives style. That I probably, STILL, won’t use. But I imagine a treadmill would make a lovely clothes hanger.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a stationary person. I walk a ton, and sometimes I dabble in yoga (although I’m currently in the hunt for a new studio). But the reason I’m subjecting myself to this dieting hell is because, well, in your late 20’s things just aren’t, oh, how you say, naturally tight anymore. Gross, right? Eww, aging.

So as I sit here eating my plain Jane salad with half the dressing, no cheese, and minimal croutons miserably, I can’t help but crave a large plate of curly fries … and maybe a large margarita pizza to back it up. But in order for me to thoroughly enjoy myself on vacation, mama needs to tighten this shit up. I’m only dieting for me, because at the end of the day, you are the one that has to live with yourself, am I right?

In other news: dieting is the devil.


The App Is IN The Tablet?!

01-zoolanderI wouldn’t call myself “tech savvy” in any sense of the term. I still have one of those old school block TVs that weigh a literal ton, I’m not a huge fan of HD and don’t really grasp the difference, and my computer is from 2007 (although that is something I’m well aware that needs an upgrade).

So when I got the opportunity to use the Verizon Wireless 4G LTE network Samsung Galaxy Tab 7.7, I was thrilled to expose myself to some new technology … even though I’m a notorious Apple snob. To be quite honest, I had no idea how to use the thing once I got it (picture Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson banging on the Apple computer like monkeys in Zoolander). “The files are IN the computer!?” But after a little investigating and Googling, I got on track and started the App downloading process.

When it comes to Apps, I’m very basic. Traditional social apps, Shazaam, Google Maps, you know, the norm (what can I say, I don’t like a lot of clutter). But I did use this Tablet opportunity to try out some fashion/lifestyle apps that could potentially upgrade my life. Oh yeah, and MAYBE I may or may not have downloaded Kim Kardashian’s app and became slightly addicted to it. I won’t say yes or not, but I will say if you need some downtime to just play something that is mindless, download immediately. But that’s all I will say about that.

When I stopped pretending I lived in Kim Kardashian’s world (not that I’m admitting to downloading her app, nope, not up in here :::shifty eyes:::), I did find some apps that every woman needs in her life, on her tablet, and/or phone. Seriously. Even though technology may not be my forte, I did enjoy stepping outside of my App comfort zone on this fancy little device (although I am not converting to Android, ever. Sorry … Apple fo’ life).

Pose:  Trendsetters, this one is for you. Check out the latest looks, trade clothes with other fashion-forward folk, and get inspired for some new style. I mean, if you are looking to stay one step ahead of the style game, this App is a must.

Silk Knots: Okay, maybe not everyone owns slash can afford an Hermes scarf. Hell, I sure as balls can’t. BUT this awesome app teaches you how to tie knots in elegant and unconventional ways. Target, Hermnes, Chanel, H&M … Apps shouldn’t discriminate.

Whisp: This App is like one big super gigantic mall, minus all the annoying people, germs, women with strollers, gross loitering teens, and people working in kiosks insulting your hair styles in hopes you will let them use their fancy hair straightener on you. Whisp literally pulls millions of products for you to shop in one convenient place. Genius? I think so.

Beautified: Some days, I wake up in a shitty mood and decide I need to treat myself. But it isn’t always easy to get a last minute appointment at the prized salons and spas. Thanks to this nifty app co-founded by Who What Wear and Byrdie, you can now book last-minute services in awesome salons and spas near you. Right now it is only available in NY, LA, and San Fran, but coming soon to Miami and DC (ummm hello, where is the Philly love?!)

ASAP54: Have you ever seen a girl out one night wearing an outfit you would sell a loved one for? Welp, now you can take a creepy pic of said person, upload it to ASAP54, and find where that chick got her look. Creepy? Slightly. Amazing? Totes. You may not find an exact match, but definitely something similar. Meh … something is better than nothing, right?

Kindness: It Still Exists

c36cbc551d1f4cfe40989b8bc7b07807You know when two ladies rush up to give you a compliment and your first thought is, “holy shit I’m about to get jumped,” there is something seriously wrong with me slash this world we live in.

I found myself at a dreadful outdoor drinking arena where you needed a damn bathroom pass to go visit the fancy Porto-potties on the other side of the venue (Spruce Street Harbor for those of you from Philly). Beer only? Bathroom passes? Hipsters passed out in hammocks? The stank of the Delaware River? Porto-potties? Not my scene. But this is neither here nor there.

As I was waiting to enter the fancy Porto-potties, I saw these two normal looking blonde ladies, who were probably in their 30’s, rushing over to me. At first I thought, “dear sweet Jesus I’m about to get jumped/harrassed/or robbed.” When you’re in a city, especially on the East Coast, that is where your mind goes. I secretly surrendered and braced myself like a fool and just said, “welp, here it is, my time has come.”

But to my surprise, and mostly shock, these two ladies stood in front of me saying, “OMG you look so beautiful this evening! Look at that outfit of yours, it is so pretty!” I stopped flinching in anticipation that they were going to deck me, and looked at them like a deer in headlights. Friendly people? No no … friendly women offering up amazing compliments that were making me glow? Whhhhaaa?! Where am I? Did they just jump me and now I’m in heaven?

And no, I was not wearing anything special. I wore my most comfortable maxi skirt, tank top, and had exhaustion and anger splashed across my face after a long day of hosting a bridal shower all day and then having to deal with an overflowing bladder at a bar with bathroom passes and way too many rules … and no vodka.

These ladies were a breath of fresh positivity, and quite the confidence booster. Never once in my 27 years existing on the East Coast had any stranger, especially a woman, been so sincerely nice for no reason. I had to ask them though, “where are you ladies from?” And my assumptions were correct, they were from out of town. The midwest to be exact. And there you have it.

I’m not going to single out city gals or East Coast ladies only, but we are so quick to judge one another, and I’m guilty of this, too. When I’m standing in line for the bathroom, most likely I’m entertaining myself in my head making rude comments about people, and it’s shitty. And when we do reach out to our fellow female and offer a compliment, we are too quick to roll our eyes, or assume they are hitting on us, or think, “what does this bitch really want.” 

I truly want to thank these anonymous ladies for making my night extra special. Sometimes a stranger telling you that you look lovely is just what the doctor ordered, let me tell you, because I had an extra pep in my step the rest of the evening. You never know what people have going on. And always assume women have RBF (resting bitch face), because I’ve been told I look like a non-approachable bitch, and that is so not the case. If you assume they have RBF, it will make the compliment giving THAT much easier.

Since then, I’ve been more opened to complimenting my fellow females, even if I don’t know them. And hopefully you will do the same. Sure, the girl may think you’re trying to mug her, but listen, baby steps people, baby steps.

I’m A Little Tea Pot …

759ce1220f70c77d1d1278b17ddc95bbSometimes you just need to shake it up. Lately I’ve been feeling like Mr. Roboto, doing the same things every weekend. And you know what? Life is too short for Mr. Roboto nonsense. So this weekend is when I say, “ENOUGH!” and do something I’ve always wanted to do since I was a little girl … and that is attend high tea.

Perhaps it is my recent obsession with the show Ladies of London, or with my admiration for British culture in itself, but high tea has always been on my to-do list. Since I was little I’ve had a fascination with teatime, pretending with my plastic tea cup set, and throwing fits when I didn’t get the matching teacups in the Match Game. And I’m pretty sure I will be that old lady with the millions of china closets lining my house filled with precious tea cups, and if anyone tries to touch one I will most likely throw one of my cats at them.

The thing is, what does one wear to high tea? I have this vision of a fantastic white dress with lace white gloves and maybe a hat. But Jesus, we aren’t in foggy London town back in the early 19th century, for crying out loud. This is 2014, in Philadelphia, in the summer heat. Even though I won’t be having tea with the queen or any dignitaries (not that I’m calling my friends slobs, lahve ya!), I still feel like one needs to pay homage to the tradition by not dressing like a slob OR a hipster.

Jeans are definitely a no no, and anything plaid probably isn’t the greatest of ideas. I do have this vision of wearing all white, pinkies up and such, graciously pouring my tea into my lovely tea cup, and then accidentally pouring the hot tea on my lap, which will lead me to leap up like a psycho, knocking over the fine china, cursing like a sailor, and leaving stained and probably wearing a badge the owner of the tearoom gives me that says “unfit.”

Listen I believe I’m the Eliza Doolittle of the tea scene, but before the professor shoved marbles in her mouth to make her speak properly. “THE RAAAIN IN SPAAAIN FULLS MAIIINLY ON THE PLLLAAAINEE.” Yep. That’s me. Regardless of my klutz tenancies, and the fact that I’m a magnet for stains and awkward situations, I’m truly looking forward to drink real tea with real people and eat real scones instead of drinking water with my stuffed animals and eating Wonder bread.

Pinkies up!









Rubbing Of The Thighs

polls_lauren_uncomfortable_1658_620846_answer_1_xlargeThere is something disturbing happening to ladies in the summer heat. Something that women don’t usually like to talk about. It is the evil that cannot be seen, touched, or smelled … but yes, oh yes, it can be felt. I am here today to air out this dirty laundry, because let’s be real, it happens to the best of us. I’m talking about our upper, UPPER thighs rubbing together. And no, I’m not going to refer to it by the name so many like to call “chub rub,” because even saying it in my head makes me gag. And quite frankly, no matter what body type you have, it can happen to you. :::The more you know star swipe:::

There is nothing worse. You think you look so cute in your little skirt, strutting your stuff down the street, then all of a sudden it starts to happen. Skin on skin. Sweating. Back and forth. Back and forth, until you find yourself no longer strutting, but walking like you have a stick up your ass to soothe the irritation, but it doesn’t help. You know you are going to end up with an odd looking rash that will be the antithesis of sexy.

The sick part is women immediately think they are fat when this happens. Hence why I want to take the name “chub rub” throw it in the mud, run over it with my car five times and light fire to it. Ladies, trust me, regardless if you have the elusive and coveted “thigh gap” … there is a special place in your thighs that will, inevitably, rub together and torture you until you sit down. So don’t think you’re safe if your thigh is the circumference of a penny, it will happen to you, one day. Oh it will happen.

When it happened to me the first time, I immediately thought I had gained weight or the carbs I so love and cherish finally caught up to me. But no. I am proud to say I am not shaped like a model. I’ve got curves, my body isn’t perfect (but really, who does have this elusive “perfect body”). My thighs rub together when it is hot and humid and I’m sweating in places that I didn’t think I could sweat, and you know what, that just makes me feel more like a woman.

But even though this “situation” makes us become very VERY aware of our thighs and almost embrace them (which we should), the irritation it leaves is still the least sexy thing in the universe, like I said before. I mean no one wants to see that. Hence why these are the most genius things I have ever seen, Bandelettes. Sexy and cute, these lacy numbers wrap around your thigh to stop the rubbing. Genius, thy name is Bandelettes.

It almost makes you want thigh chaffing to happen because they are so cute, resembling a saucy thigh high. And for $14.99, I think this is a fantastic solution to a rather unsavory problem, don’t ya think? So thank you for helping us avoid that ridiculously unattractive rash thigh chaffing creates. Seriously. Ain’t nobody got time for that.


Adult Temper Tantrums

veruca-saltRemember when you were little and it was totally acceptable to freak out about something, turn into a complete spazz, and throw yourself on the ground kicking and screaming in defense? Looking back, those are cringe-worthy moments (not that I had them, I was a perfect child). Because now when I see children in full-blown freakout mode, it makes me want to overdose on birth control.

But this weekend I had a bit of an outer body experience. You know when you have the perfect outfit in your mind, and you spend time and good amounts of money trying to pull it together, and think you have it made … but later on find out you absolutely do not?

I was attending one of my good friend’s bridal showers, and what I was dreaming of wearing was my red palazzo pants from Zara, a lace black tank, and lots of strands of sparkly black beads, perhaps hair in a bun, and my strappy black stilettos. Sounds genius right? So I put my pants on, my tank, my heels, and started layering on all the strands of beads I purchased (which were not cheap), and well, the whole thing looked like shit. I felt my anxiety rising, but I took a deep breath and thought, “I’ll save the styling for last.” (Important point to my story: I don’t have AC in my upstairs, which isn’t conducive to rage.)

Luckily my best friend was there getting ready with me, and my mom … well lucky for me, not them. As I was slowly transforming into the Incredible Hulk over jewelry drama, I turned around only to hear from my best friend, “dude, can totally see your underwear.” Shit. What? I was wearing the only nude pair of undies I owned. So what do you do in a pickle like this? You go commando. Not my favorite thing in the world, but, meh, when in Rome. So I took it off, put my pants back on and did a little spin for my loved ones to check out my “situation” in the back, to which I saw faces trying not to burst out laughing … for fear they may die. Yeaaaahh I mine as well not have been wearing pants. My neck, my back, my woo haa and my crack were literally all out and about (gotta love silk pants). Sweet Jesus, my blood pressure. My blood pressure!

Bet you think it couldn’t get worse, right? Welp, have you ever had your mother say, “I KNOW! I’ll go get some of my underwear for you to wear.” At that point my mouth just hung open. Was she serious? “What?! They’re clean!” she screamed in defense of my shock. Sharing underpants with my mother? Is this what my life was coming to?! I was sweating, everyone was lying to me, I felt like crap about myself, and now this?! Enter adult temper tantrum stage right. It went just a little something like …

“I’m not wearing your damn underwear, you crazy woman.”
“NO! NO NO NO NO NO!” This is all mother f-ing wrong!”
“I look like shit.”
“You lie to me one more time I will cut you!”
“I hate these f-ing pants.”
“You all have heinous lie faces. HEINOUS!”
“Where are the scissors, I’m cutting these pants in half.”

And so on and so forth. I only gave you a dose of the massive amounts of curse words that were flying out of my mouth. God help my mother. But seriously … who offers someone their underpants? I mean I guess that’s love, in some odd backwards universe.

I was on a rampage, to the point where everyone just left me alone. And I was happy about it, because clearly I needed to find my zen. But on the voyage to find my zen, I looked in the mirror to find my hair looking like something Sporty Spice would have rocked back in the day. I tried to take deep breaths but the rage was coming out of my pours. If I could have screamed, “I’M NOT GOING!” ripped off my outfit, jumped back into bed in an air conditioned room, pulled the covers over my head and called it a day, I would have.

So there ya have it. Some may say I need medication, others would say I need therapy. I just call it the shit hitting the fashion fan all at once. When you don’t feel like you look your best, it alters your mood drastically. As much as I wanted slash still want to take a scissor to those pants, I got my shit together and wore them loudly and proudly to the bridal shower. I hope all the ladies in waiting enjoyed my panty line and being able to clearly see that they were lace. Because I looked HAWT.

Lessons learned: Try on your outfit dream ahead of time to check for wardrobe malfunctions. And get ready in air conditioning … ALWAYS. And if you don’t get ready in air conditioning and you are having massive wardrobe malfunctions, don’t take it out on your loves ones. OH YEAH … and if you are a mother, NEVER offer your daughter your underwear.

To my mother and best friend, I apologize thoroughly for my adult temper tantrum. Kids get pacifiers if they act up, I got Chardonnay. I was a win.

Three … Three Years Old!

il_340x270.325624847Yes, it’s Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra’s THIRD birthday today. And can I say I now feel bad for rolling my eyes at parents who cry during everyone of their children’s birthdays like, “where did the time go :::sob sob sob:::” Well yeah … now I’m one of those sobbing fools.

As I sit here sipping on champagne (I traditionally treat myself to a bottle of champs every blogaversary), there is a montage of blog moments rolling through my head with “Memories” playing in the background (aren’t you jealous that you aren’t in my head right now)? Every year has been so different and so filled with those delicious “pinch me” moments that make me just hungrier for more. Oh yeah …I’ve got big plans, people .. BIG plans.

This blog is my epicenter of happiness and the best thing I have ever done so far in my 27 years on Earth. Never once have I thought to myself, “meh … over it.” And when that thought never crosses your mind, I truly believe you have something special. Because being a blogger is hard, and time consuming, and lonely, and annoying, and exhausting, and competitive … did I mention time consuming? But like I said, my life would have sucked way worse if I didn’t wear a strapless bra when I was 16 and thought to myself, “LIFE SUCKS IN STRAPLESS BRAS! Wait … I should do something with that one day.”

Most importantly, it is one of the most rewarding things I do because of all the amazing support I receive. From friends, family, co-workers, friends of friends, people I don’t even know, and freaks on Twitter … it is overwhelming sometimes how supported and encouraged I feel because of all of you. Cliche warning: I honest to sweet Jesus wouldn’t be able to keep on keepin’ on without all of your well wishes, comments, retweets and other social media buzzwords that equal support nowadays.

So yeah … I can KICK, STRETCH and KIIIICK …. I’M THREE, THREE YEARS OLD! What up year four, let’s do dis!


Mmmm Couture

6.nocrop.w840.h1330I want to go to Paris. And not so I can fall in love under the Eiffel Tower, or stand in the ridic line at the Louvre to not see the Mona Lisa, or wear a dumbass beret and really scream, “HEY … I’M MURICAN!” No. I want to dive in the sea of overflowing fashion that is happening right now. I want to bathe in it. I want to be injected with it. Oh yeah …  I said it.

Ladies, New York Fashion Week is amateur hour compared to the Paris Couture shows. You don’t see the swarms of fashion bloggers from all over the country taking selfies out front of the shows. Or assholes like me who just stand out front of Lincoln Center ticketless and hoping to see a cool famous person. Nope. This is strictly for the big wigs. The people who truly respect and want to soak in every ounce of the beauty and art that these shows have to offer. I’m not hating on my fellow fashion bloggers, but even I know I don’t belong there. Some things should remain sacred, ya know?

So instead I sat on my bed last night, flipping through the slideshows on The Cut and pretending I was sitting front row next to Anna Wintour and Grace Coddington trying to act cool but secretly freaking out inside. Everything was so beautiful, so abstract, and some so simple you would sell a loved one just to hold it (trust me, I’ve contemplated it).

Life just doesn’t get any better than couture. It just doesn’t. We forget sometimes because there is truly so much crap out there. Beautiful crap … but crap. But when you see couture it just like a breath of fresh air, like “holy lord, I’m wearing trash bags and paying too much money for them. What am I doing with my life.”

I’ll let you decide which is your favorite, but I completely fell head over heals for Dior’s show and would put on one of those coats in this heatwave happily and twirl around. Hell, I would probably live in it like a cartoon character who only rocks one outfit. So if you would excuse me, I’m going to go back to daydreaming that I’m in Paris for the couture shows and not sweating on the subway with the commoners. K, bye. Now enjoy some of the pieces I’m currently drooling over.










On Aura Tout Vu


Giambattista Valli






*All photos were taken from The Cut.

Heat On The Street Is Making Me Delusional


Photo credit:

I feel like I end up writing about this every summer, but I can’t help it. The heat is too much. And I know, I know … I was the queen of bitching about the polar vortex this past winter, but my lesson has been learned. At least I don’t want to pass out trekking through a blizzard, am I right? But you know how it goes, the grass is always greener … blah blah blah.

With that being said, I’ve found myself wanting to do/doing some really awkward things due to the heat. Call it heat stroke, call it not giving an eff … who knows. But I felt the need to share as I’m sure we are all in the same boat if you are suffering through this heatwave in the city like me … ahem:

1. Dressing like Kim Kardashian: Seriously. I was on the train this morning and I looked down at my outfit and thought to myself, “OMG I’ve watched so many Kardashian’s marathons that I’m turning in to them.” Well that isn’t exactly the case (at least I hope not). But I am rocking a high waisted pencil skirt and tank, much like this … but less skin (don’t want to become the office ho), of course … and not in Paris … on Patco. And not in couture … in discount. And proud of it!


2. Sweating all over my tote: Do I need to go into more detail here? I just would rather not. But my tote … my poor, poor tote.

3. Pencil dive: I would love nothing more than to dive into a pool in all of my clothes and then continue on with my day. Black eye liner running down my face and all.

4. Get naked: Not really … I’ll never be THAT hot. But I’ve been trying the extremely hard task of dressing by wearing the least amount of clothing possible. And FYI, maxi skirts don’t breathe.

5. Take a breather: In the subway station. And yes, there are no chairs, but the idea of sliding on the disgusting, disease ridden, yet cool walls all the way down to the disgusting, disease ridden ground sounds glorious.

6. Walk slow, homie: I’m a notoriously fast walker. I want to get from A to B as quickly as possibly and if you get in my way, I will call you a “douche clown” in my head. But in this head, honey I stroll. Which sucks because I have to leave my house earlier than usually to make my train.

7. Try really hard not to stink: I started to notice around 1pm that I stink. I’m that guy stinkin’ up the joint. Some deodorant brands claim they last all day … well no. When it is hot as hell and you’re a commuter, it sadly does not. So hell yes I have “desk deodorant”. Every woman needs one. Don’t be the stinky employee in the building. Don’t be that guy.

8. Not drinking my Starbucks: I’m obsessed with the lemonade black tea combo not sweetened. It’s insanely refreshing. But lately, I’ve just wanted to pour it over my head rather than drink it. Sure flys would attack me, and I would be a hot mess for the rest of the day, but it just seems so delightful, doesn’t it?

9. Get hooked up to an IV: Of water that is. Why isn’t this a thing? How much quicker would it be to get hydrated if you could just get hooked up to an IV of water and call it a day. Running to the water cooler, and the bathroom, gets exhausting. #LazyAndDehydrated #SmallBladder

10. Buy a Parasol: I’ve seen these women walking around the city with umbrellas open when it is perfectly sunny. Secretly I was like, “What up Michael Jackson,” but then I realized they were genius. Umbrellas block out the sun, dumbass. Seriously, the top of my head feels like it is on fire when I’m in the sun. Not good for the hair coloring business, let me tell you.


All joking aside, be safe in this heat! Take your time, wear light and breezy clothes … and for the LOVE of GOD … hydrate!

Style Stud: The Great U S Of A


flag-detailLadies and gentleman … ‘MURICA.

I mean how could I NOT make the American flag my style stud of the week? It’s a beaut … what can I say.

Well I’m going to keep this short and sweet as I need to get dressed and prepared to start getting my eat on and my drank on underneath some fire works (which I hope you all are doing the same). But I got to say how lucky all of us are to live in such a fantastic country (and if you are reading this and you’re in another country … I’m sure it’s fab, too). Sometimes we forget … but freedom of speech kind of rules, along with all of our other pieces of freedom we most certainly take for granted. For example the fact that I can sit here typing whatever the fuck I want (yeah I said it) whenever the fuck I want (uh huh … said it again) … is kind of amazing (my family is most certainly going to kill me at our BBQ today for cursing on my blog … sorry fam).

So with all of that being said, I will dazzle you with some of my most coveted ‘MURICA pics. Like the one at the top is by one of my favorite artists, Jasper Johns, who just happened to be from Philly, too (not that I’m biased or anything :::shifty eyes). Everyone have a fantastic 4th … eat, drink, be merry … and responsible. No one likes a hot mess.

women tina fey american flag magazine covers vanity fair magazine 2340x3329 wallpaper_www.knowledgehi.com_100

KGrHqJgwE4-W5OBOQbUDERmg0_3 willf ladygagatelephone Britney_Spears_American_Flag

(I know, I know … not ‘MURICA but I still adore her)



And FINALLY … the lady who started it all …



Backhanded Compliment … Meet The Back Of My Hand

tina-fey-thumbs-downWe’ve all been there. We look good. We feel good. We want to strut a little. Then all of a sudden you run into “that” friend. The friend that loves nothing more than to investigate what you are wearing, doing, and seeing with a fine tooth comb. That person mine as well be a hurricane that will wipe away and destroy all the goodness you have going on with one simple comment, that goes something like this: “I wish I had the confidence to pull off something so see-through.” Umm … wait what? Are you saying I look good and confident, or are you really telling me my outfit is see-through?

When you receive a compliment, all you should be doing is blushing and saying how flattered you are … and a little taken back by how nice this person is being. Your hand will go to your heart and your face will shift as your are saying “Awww!” and then you will say, “oh my GAWD … THANKS!” You might even give them a little friendly shoulder punch. It will feel like a breath of fresh air. It will feel like spring time with no humidity. It will feel like the first sip of wine after a heinous week. It will make you glow.

Backhanded compliments, on the other hand (no pun intended), deserve to go to the back door. What is the damn point?! Are you THAT insecure that you feel the need to insult me, yet don’t have the balls to follow through so you just sugar-coat it with a little positive adjective to make me feel all warm inside?

You know when you’re given a backhanded compliment when you start to say, “thaaaan…” but stop and say, “wait, what?” instead to yourself. You still say, “thanks” minus the blushing and the feeling of taking that first sip of wine after a shitty week feeling. Because really, you are trying to dissect what the person just said to you and see if it truly was a compliment. Most of the time, if you are scratching your head in confusion … it was a backhanded compliment. I think we should change it to something more delightful like, “YOU JUST GOT BHC-ed!” I’ll come up with some hand motion to go with it shortly. Hey, it’s a work in progress.

Now I get it, you are probably saying, “seriously … what the hell are you talking about. Maybe you should stop being so paranoid and just accept a compliment when it is given and stop being a bitch,” But let me give you a taste of some common BHC’s that you (probably) have encountered. And then I will do the “I told you so dance” … ahem:

“You’re so fortunate that you can go shopping so much when you don’t have family and a mortgage.”

“It’s so refreshing to meet someone who likes simple things.”

“I love that you don’t care what people think!”

“You’re so brave for wearing that.”

Grrr ::shaking fist::: just stop. Everyone stop BHC-ing one another, for the love of sweet Jesus. Didn’t your parents teach you, “when you have nothing nice to say, say nothing at all?” They probably did, except some asshole found a loophole, also known as backhanded compliments and that is how people get around it. Listen, you either like something or you don’t. I don’t think people should shell out compliments unless they are REALLY passionate about something. Like if I see a girl walking down the street in shoes I would sell my mother for, I would say, “hey …random girl … those shoes RULE!” And then she would think I was hitting on her … and probably run away, but come on, you know what I’m saying!

So I challenge you all to give a REAL compliment today. Don’t bring someone else down just because you are feeling shitty and jealous … just do it. It will feel good. If it doesn’t … well, there is always wine.



I Swear I’m Not Goth

99a2fa5150e40e7336fb410239dd192aAbout two weeks ago, my 12-year-old niece told me that, “everyone knows if you wear all black, you’re goth.” And then my head did this:


:::Sigh::: kids, am I right? Silly, silly, per-pubescent children … how little do thy know. Right now, my niece is all about neon. Neon everything. The more color, the better. So I can understand why she looks into my closet and thinks, “holy shit (although she best not be cursing :::back of my hand:::), my aunt is goth.”

When I was her age, I would have never worn all black anywhere for fear people would have thought I was goth. Goth wasn’t something cool to be in middle school, or even in high school. They were the scary kids who shopped at Hot Topic, had KORN patches (backwards R and all) on their book bags and rocked a lot of chains everywhere. Their hair was either black, or spiked in different colors of the rainbow, and they invested in black lipstick stock. I would only threaten to go goth when my mom made me do something I didn’t want to do. I mean I worshiped the book of Britney Spears and wished I was in the Gap commercial swing dancing in khakis, for crying out loud. In no way shape or form did I associate myself with the “goths.”

So as the words were coming out of my mouth to shame my naive niece, “Ummm black is chic, you know nothing,” I kind of understood where she was coming from. In kid-teen world, all black everything means uncool and goth. In adult world it is dignified and chic …Karl Lagerfeld and Kanye West says so. The more black you wear, the cooler you are (well, um, that’s what I think, at least).

And if I was forced to go back to middle school, right now, as a 27-year-old woman, Billy Madison-style, I would most definitely be considered “goth.” 97.4% of my wardrobe is black … or some dark color. I like my neutrals, what can I say. My jewelry is always statement-worthy (I have a cuff that most certainly could be used as a weapon). My nails are Lincoln Park After Dark (aka close enough to black as I will go). My hair is one shade away from being black. Anything with studs on it makes me insanely happy. I rarely leave the house without liquid black eye liner, and I’ve recently become obsessed with dark burgundy lipstick. Preppy bitches would most definitely be yelling, “go back to the crypt, goth!” as I strutted down the hallway.

But I’m not goth. I don’t wish I was married to Satan. I’m definitely not depressed. And never once have I ever nor will I ever own or download a KORN album. I wear black because it makes me feel good and comfortable. Black is chic, and that is something you learn over time. There is absolutely nothing wrong with it. I wear blackish nail polish because I think it rocks. I feel naked without my liquid black eye liner as I feel it makes my blue eyes pop, and the color pink makes me want to vomit. But hey, that is just my style. If you want to walk down the street looking like a God damn highlighter … go for it, people. Style is about self expression.

I suppose the age-old saying is true, “don’t judge a book by its cover.” Those “goth” kids in high school that I used to avoid were probably not as freakish as I made them out to be. They were just doing something I didn’t have the balls to do … which is to be true to themselves. One day I looked at my colorful closet and realized I was only wearing the same two black shirts I owned over and over … and decided to say, “screw it,” and wear what I liked without worrying about some jerk giving me a stupid title like, “goth.”

So yes, I don’t enjoy color, but no, kids, I’m not “goth.” And even if you do ID yourself as a said “goth” … that, again, doesn’t mean you beckon Satan on the reg. If only kids knew how cool the color black was sooner. :::Sigh:::


Great, now I feel old.

Style Stud: Old Navy Flip Flop Vending Machines

Emma Roberts Checks out the Old Navy Flip Flop Vending Machine in LAThere’s absolutely nothing worse than wearing a fantastic pair of heels throughout the city, but your feet hurting so badly you just want to chop them off. Or even worse, your feet hurting so badly you wouldn’t mind strutting through the city streets barefoot! Trust me, the idea of getting hepatitis rather than having to deal with wearing 5 in torture devices seemed pleasant to me definitely more than once.

But could you imagine, suffering and walking like an idiot through the city to avoid sharp pains of death, when … wait? Could it be? A FLIP FLOP VENDING MACHINE?!?! WAAAAAAAAAAAA!?!

Thanks to Old Navy, a flip flop vending machine isn’t just a mirage women see when they are in shoe pain anymore. It’s the real deal to honor their $1 flip flop sale. Listen, I haven’t worn a pair of Old Navy flip flops since I was in college, mostly as shower shoes, but if I was in need, I would literally kiss the machine and give it my money … happily, instead of carrying around a pair of flats with me and taking up precious purse space. It is genius.

I have nothing against Old Navy flip flops … they are a great go-to when you need to run a quick errand, walk your dog, go outside and get the paper … and especially, when you want to set fire to a pair of uncomfortable heels. Old Navy … I applaud you.

My only bone I have to pick with Old Navy is this: Why don’t you have any flip flop vending machines in Philly? Huh? We have lots of stylish women who love their high heels but hate the pain. We have lovely parks and lovely streets for you to put said vending machines on … so why are you depriving us of this golden and comfortable opportunity. Philly needs some comfort and some flop love, too, Old Navy … Just sayin’.

Vogue: The New Debbie Downer

debbie-downerNothing makes me pee my pants laughing more than the Debbie Downer skit on SNL. Specifically the episode with Lindsay Lohan where everyone in the skit can’t control their laughter. If you don’t know what I’m referring to, well :::sigh::: shame on you, but let me dazzle you with this, you’re welcome in advance:

I came home from work yesterday to find myself hot, tired, and needing a little escape. Enter Vogue, stage right. Now I have notoriously expensive taste. I can’t help it. I’ve tried, I’ve really tried, but it is in my genes. I want to thank my mother for this one, because the apple doesn’t fall far. So yeah … thanks Mom. But as I poured myself a glass of wine, snuggled in on my couch and started to dive face first into the land of Vogue, I realized something. If you are an average gal like me, makin’ money, but nothing close to Beyonce money, with a taste for the finer things in life, but live on a tight budget … Vogue is the new Debbie Downer. Yep. There. I said it.

“When you’re enjoying your day, everything’s goin’ your way … then along comes Debbie Downer. Always there to tell you about a new disease, a car accident or killer bees. You’ll beg her to spare you, DEBBIE PLEASE! But you can’t stop Debbie Downer! :::WHOMP WHOMP:::”

So this is what was going on in my head as I thumbed through Vogue last night:

Me: OMG that bag is to die for. Seriously. My heart … It’s the perfect color, size, everything. It is exactly what I have been look forward. THANK JESUS! That’s it … I need it. How much could it POSSIBLY be?
Debbie Downer: The bag is Balenciaga … and it is $5,000 … WHOMP WHOMP If you buy it then you’ll most likely end up not being able to pay your rent and living in a van down by the river. And you know what they say, where there are rivers … there are snakes.
Me: :::Heart breaking, fiercely flips page:::


Me: Now look at that dress. That is a dress that every woman needs. It is classic, it is the right length … it’s timeless. This is totally an investment I could make. Oh please be in my price range, please be in my price range :::crossing fingers:::
Debbie Downer: The dress is made by Chanel … and it is so expensive you have to call someone to find out the price. Probably because it is so expensive you will go into cardiac arrest.


Me: Those shoes are everything. EVERYTHING. I would wear them everywhere. I would kiss them every day. I could think of 15 outfits I could pair them with. I could make it work financially … perhaps I’ll sell my blood? Ehh?!
Debbie Downer: Whoa, whoa, whoa … slow down there, Sally, these shoes are Valentino and only Kim Kardashian can afford to buy them like they are pairs of Keds.


Ugh. I literally punted the magazine after I was done torturing myself. Now I’m not stupid. I know Vogue only shows high fashion pieces of clothing and high fashion accessories. I get it, I get it. But just ONCE. ONCE I would like to instantaneously fall in love with a garment on the pages of Vogue and actually and realistically be able to purchase it without hearing this sound.

Hiss … DEBBIE DOWNER …hiss :::shaking fist:::

Sorry I Can’t Go Out, I’m Shaving My Legs

lady-gillette-ad-1965The idea of showering is so relaxing, right? Getting in your clean tub, scrubbing off the dirt and grime of the day, soothing scents like lavender floating about. Glorious, right? Even taking baths seems like a treat (except I will only take baths in really nice hotels, only … don’t ask me why … most tubs skeeve me), but I’ve always wanted to fill my tub up with lemon slices and just chill.

But in the summertime, showering gets a little less relaxing due to a little thing called excess leg hair. Now, don’t get me wrong, I do shave my legs in the winter, but I half ass it 100%. If you do take the time to thoroughly shave your legs in the winter, well … hmm what’s that sound, you ask? That is me shaking my shame stick at you. Take advantage! For the love …

I personally have rather long legs :::hair flip::: To some that may be considered an envy-worthy quality, but quite frankly, during the months of sweltering heat and short skirts, I would like to chop them off.

Shaving my legs is literally the last thing I do whilst showering (I know you all REALLY needed to know that). I don’t know why, but the idea of flinging my leg to the side of my tub and covering it with body wash (because I never have shaving cream), exhausts me.

There is nothing fun about shaving your legs. Nothing. You can’t even turn on music and rock out whilst doing it, because you will get cut, and you will bleed. You have to make sure your legs are properly coated in whatever kind of shaving cream you use otherwise you will be plagued with a little thing called razor burn (woof), then you have to move in some contortionist fashion to grab your razor on the other size of the tub. And then the fun begins, as you try to balance on one leg … yes one leg … while holding a device that could be considered a weapon. Cool.

Sorry for the Seinfeld moment here, but what is the deal with razors?! Why do they all have to be pastels? Huh? I don’t get it. Men get these cool silver razors with different speeds and we get Susie Sunshine’s razor? Bullshit. Just because it is pink with pretty little flowers on it, doesn’t make me want to hop in the tub and spend my evenings smiling and removing the hair from my legs and thanking Jesus Christ I’m a woman. No. It infuriates me. If Schick made an all black razor with skulls all over it, I would totally invest. Just a thought. Because the idea of dragging a sharp razor blade up my leg just so I don’t offend people with my leg hair doesn’t equal frolicking in a field of daisies, let’s be real.

And no matter what, I cut myself. Always. I could be going as slow as possible, concentrating and balancing on one leg like a boss, and I ALWAYS tend to bleed. I’ve literally ruined every white towel that I own. I even get the razor that promises to not cut you and I still walk out of the shower with a line of blood dripping down my leg. Sexy, right?

The worst days are the ones where you are going to a pool party or the beach and have to shave it all. Like ankle to thigh. Woof. Nothing is the worse than ankle to thigh shaving. I literally have to block off like an extra 15 minutes in the shower to do a thorough and complete job. Because if you don’t think you have hair on your upper thigh … you’re a damn fool. It’s there. And it’s fierce.

So what I’m saying is, let’s stop shaving our legs, ladies! To HELL with those pastel razors. FEMINISM! YAY!


Juuuuuuuuuuust kidding, body hair isn’t okay. Ever. But seriously, Schick, black razor with skulls all over it. Make it happen.