Fashionigma

Because the well dressed can be well read.
Miss Danielle J. Schivek, photo by Jeanne Crehange, September 29, 2014, Champs Élysées.
Having recently acquired the privilege of signing my name with the distinction, J.D., it should be of no surprise to you that I find myself in an unexceptional position of unemployment, with time quite at my disposal.  You must be equally unimpressed to learn that since taking the New York State Bar Examination at the very end of July, I have unhealthily binged on films and television series available on Netflix, and also found myself in Europe for the far-too short a stay of exactly two weeks.
As you now find yourself reading my words, you should be of the knowledge that it is has long been my aspiration to advocate in the arena of “Fashion Law.”  Yet Fashion Law seems not only to be an area of legal expertise that escapes Americans, but those in London – less so in Paris, found the niche to be of equally frivolity.
It was only a day after my return from my European excursion that from my MacBook Pro speakers I heard an exceptionally adorned Kiera Knightly as Georgiana Spencer, The Duchess of Devonshire, in the film “The Duchess” chirp, “You (men) have so many ways of expressing yourselves, whereas we (women) must make do with our hats and dresses.”  Although such a sentiment reflects a period of more than two centuries ago, it is still regarded as a proper understanding of the significance of fashion.  For what more purpose could fashion have than to set apart an individual amongst a sea of suitors?
It is my duty to now inform you that the expression of fashion is governed by real conditions in society, and the medium is more than a conduit for self-expression.  Historically, fashion has consistently conveyed both political and commercial messages.  Economic theorists David Hume and Adam Smith, whose theories the U.S. has adopted, endorsed 18th Century England’s expansion into free markets in order to improve the ailing economy and modernize.  The two believed that luxury was “the greatest incentive for economic growth,” and that a healthy economy requires consumers’ increased demand for goods and services.
The fashion and apparel sector in the United States has achieved the status of a truly global industry, ballooning to more than $340 billion in revenue.  Globally, it has become one of the largest and most dynamic areas of the world economy, accounting for nearly 4% of world trade, in excess of $1 trillion per year.  Why then, is it so difficult to convince against the notion that crimes in all other areas of law are of a greater public threat?
Though it is unlikely to be openly admitted, fashion has become the heart of the U.S. economy, and U.S. intellectual property law is at a critical point in which issues currently facing the fashion industry must avoid further compounding at the hand of digital technologies.  It is of paramount importance then that I stop receiving the looks of confusion and concern each time I convey my career aspirations, for as I have explained in the many words above, you can be assured that my pursuits are of the most noble cause.

Miss Danielle J. Schivek, photo by Jeanne Crehange, September 29, 2014, Champs Élysées.

Having recently acquired the privilege of signing my name with the distinction, J.D., it should be of no surprise to you that I find myself in an unexceptional position of unemployment, with time quite at my disposal.  You must be equally unimpressed to learn that since taking the New York State Bar Examination at the very end of July, I have unhealthily binged on films and television series available on Netflix, and also found myself in Europe for the far-too short a stay of exactly two weeks.

As you now find yourself reading my words, you should be of the knowledge that it is has long been my aspiration to advocate in the arena of “Fashion Law.”  Yet Fashion Law seems not only to be an area of legal expertise that escapes Americans, but those in London – less so in Paris, found the niche to be of equally frivolity.

It was only a day after my return from my European excursion that from my MacBook Pro speakers I heard an exceptionally adorned Kiera Knightly as Georgiana Spencer, The Duchess of Devonshire, in the film “The Duchess” chirp, “You (men) have so many ways of expressing yourselves, whereas we (women) must make do with our hats and dresses.”  Although such a sentiment reflects a period of more than two centuries ago, it is still regarded as a proper understanding of the significance of fashion.  For what more purpose could fashion have than to set apart an individual amongst a sea of suitors?

It is my duty to now inform you that the expression of fashion is governed by real conditions in society, and the medium is more than a conduit for self-expression.  Historically, fashion has consistently conveyed both political and commercial messages.  Economic theorists David Hume and Adam Smith, whose theories the U.S. has adopted, endorsed 18th Century England’s expansion into free markets in order to improve the ailing economy and modernize.  The two believed that luxury was “the greatest incentive for economic growth,” and that a healthy economy requires consumers’ increased demand for goods and services.

The fashion and apparel sector in the United States has achieved the status of a truly global industry, ballooning to more than $340 billion in revenue.  Globally, it has become one of the largest and most dynamic areas of the world economy, accounting for nearly 4% of world trade, in excess of $1 trillion per year.  Why then, is it so difficult to convince against the notion that crimes in all other areas of law are of a greater public threat?

Though it is unlikely to be openly admitted, fashion has become the heart of the U.S. economy, and U.S. intellectual property law is at a critical point in which issues currently facing the fashion industry must avoid further compounding at the hand of digital technologies.  It is of paramount importance then that I stop receiving the looks of confusion and concern each time I convey my career aspirations, for as I have explained in the many words above, you can be assured that my pursuits are of the most noble cause.

Helmut Lang, Lyra Folded Drape Top in Dusty Sapphire, $193, Forward by Elyse Walker.
Several months ago I went through a rather unconventional “break-up.”  That is if you consider ceasing any and all contact, without so much as a warning, to be within the working definition of a “break-up.”
This Pisces was a compulsive texter, leave him shy of a response for more than twenty minutes and I quickly had him backtracking.  “I didn’t sniff your shirt in a creepy way… I just saw that you had left it here and it smells like you…”  If I responded indifferently, something was terribly amis.  He once FaceTimed me amid his Saturday evening festivities because I told him I’d talk to him in the morning.  “Baba why you mad?!”  Oh yes, within a week of dating I had been blessed with a pet-name.  Babalah, Baba, or Ba for short.  I hope you too find it quite shocking then, that after two months of courtship, this attention-starved lovah-man pulled a real Houdini.
After a week on the back of the milk carton of my mind, he appeared like a welcome glass of water after a heavy night of drinking.  And by glass of water, I mean the rather unpleasant experience of realizing you are actually drinking a glass of warm Vodka.  His text read, “I can’t talk right now.  I have WAY too much going on and I’ll explain everything when I can.”  I had just finished New Moon, the second installment in the Twilight book series.  If the Volturi were coming after me and he was merely trying to protect me, he had to know I wouldn’t let him shoulder this burden alone!  “He is SO in rehab!” concluded a dear friend and former pill-popper.
But when he appeared in my Facebook Newsfeed but a week later I knew it was not so.  That Abercrombie & Fitch wearin’ son-of-a-bitch didn’t even give me the dignity of a, “Thanks, but no thanks.”  And I used to think there was nothing more humiliating than a “Slow Fade!”  If it wasn’t for our INTENSE Facebook relationship, cemented by witty wall posts and photos worthy of a fireplace mantle, it would be as if he had never existed!  How very Edward Cullen of him…
Certainly I’m not fated to be alone forever!  God must have a reason for making me THIS good-looking!  Such is why the idea of a “Dating Pre-nup” required my actual consideration.  “It should be a rule that at the beginning of every dating interaction, you must declare whether you prefer a clear or faded breakup… A ‘Dating Pre-nup,’ established before the first date,” writes Maureen O’Conner in an article for The Cut.  But also, who gets custody of shared friends?  Can I stay friends with your friend’s girlfriends?  Nudie-pic deletion is a must if Sexters are ever to rest easy!  May I keep the clothes I’ve absorbed into my wardrobe?  Will have “ex-sex” in exchange for well-worn flannel?
Romance is masked in the illusion of optimism, and establishing “rules” is a total dream-killer.  Yet the odds that any one date will turn into a sweeping love story are quite low.  We arrive at first dates in a state of hope, and so does talking about the possibility of failure destroy that hope?  Or could a “Dating Pre-nup” become a mechanism for improving social rituals and communication?
However brief my courtship might have been with what I suspect is my very last Pisces, if the worst thing I ever did to him was bring over two slices of Pizza and hefty helping of Cheesecake when I knew he was trying to eat healthy, I, at the very least deserve some sort of goodbye!  But what I deserve, and what I want are two different things entirely.  As I stand before my closet with that naked hanger staring me square in the eye, I know that all I really want is… my fucking shirt back.

Helmut Lang, Lyra Folded Drape Top in Dusty Sapphire, $193, Forward by Elyse Walker.

Several months ago I went through a rather unconventional “break-up.”  That is if you consider ceasing any and all contact, without so much as a warning, to be within the working definition of a “break-up.”

This Pisces was a compulsive texter, leave him shy of a response for more than twenty minutes and I quickly had him backtracking.  “I didn’t sniff your shirt in a creepy way… I just saw that you had left it here and it smells like you…”  If I responded indifferently, something was terribly amis.  He once FaceTimed me amid his Saturday evening festivities because I told him I’d talk to him in the morning.  “Baba why you mad?!”  Oh yes, within a week of dating I had been blessed with a pet-name.  Babalah, Baba, or Ba for short.  I hope you too find it quite shocking then, that after two months of courtship, this attention-starved lovah-man pulled a real Houdini.

After a week on the back of the milk carton of my mind, he appeared like a welcome glass of water after a heavy night of drinking.  And by glass of water, I mean the rather unpleasant experience of realizing you are actually drinking a glass of warm Vodka.  His text read, “I can’t talk right now.  I have WAY too much going on and I’ll explain everything when I can.”  I had just finished New Moon, the second installment in the Twilight book series.  If the Volturi were coming after me and he was merely trying to protect me, he had to know I wouldn’t let him shoulder this burden alone!  “He is SO in rehab!” concluded a dear friend and former pill-popper.

But when he appeared in my Facebook Newsfeed but a week later I knew it was not so.  That Abercrombie & Fitch wearin’ son-of-a-bitch didn’t even give me the dignity of a, “Thanks, but no thanks.”  And I used to think there was nothing more humiliating than a “Slow Fade!”  If it wasn’t for our INTENSE Facebook relationship, cemented by witty wall posts and photos worthy of a fireplace mantle, it would be as if he had never existed!  How very Edward Cullen of him…

Certainly I’m not fated to be alone forever!  God must have a reason for making me THIS good-looking!  Such is why the idea of a “Dating Pre-nup” required my actual consideration.  “It should be a rule that at the beginning of every dating interaction, you must declare whether you prefer a clear or faded breakup… A ‘Dating Pre-nup,’ established before the first date,” writes Maureen O’Conner in an article for The Cut.  But also, who gets custody of shared friends?  Can I stay friends with your friend’s girlfriends?  Nudie-pic deletion is a must if Sexters are ever to rest easy!  May I keep the clothes I’ve absorbed into my wardrobe?  Will have “ex-sex” in exchange for well-worn flannel?

Romance is masked in the illusion of optimism, and establishing “rules” is a total dream-killer.  Yet the odds that any one date will turn into a sweeping love story are quite low.  We arrive at first dates in a state of hope, and so does talking about the possibility of failure destroy that hope?  Or could a “Dating Pre-nup” become a mechanism for improving social rituals and communication?

However brief my courtship might have been with what I suspect is my very last Pisces, if the worst thing I ever did to him was bring over two slices of Pizza and hefty helping of Cheesecake when I knew he was trying to eat healthy, I, at the very least deserve some sort of goodbye!  But what I deserve, and what I want are two different things entirely.  As I stand before my closet with that naked hanger staring me square in the eye, I know that all I really want is… my fucking shirt back.

Moroccan Oil, Intense Curl Cream, $22, Amazon.com.
Now, aside from my mother, I believe the only other readers of Fashionigma are my beaus past and present.  One of whom said he intended to keep up with Fashionigma, even after we went our separate ways, so as to improve his English… I regretted to inform my former darling that by reading Fashionigma, and consequently learning five different ways to say vagina, wouldn’t do him much good when conversing with anyone other than sick individuals like myself…
On my first marathon of a date with this same man, beginning with a couples massage at a spa in SoHo, lunch at Peels on Bowery, an afternoon of sangria and live jazz at the Frying Pan on the Hudson, which came to an elegant end with a belly full of Cabernet and hand-cut pasta in one of those ever-so-cozy date-spots in Williamsburg, he decreed in PERFECT English, “I love women.  You have so much power.  You control the world."  While many with whom I have shared a meal or two with would scoff at such an utterance as a fine addition to any feminist manifesto, the statement begs for more thoughtful consideration.  As a sex, do women have more power than we realize?
“If you’re asking me who ‘won’ I’d have to say they did.  I mean, they got to sleep with me."  If you think a vageen-bearing individual said the previous statement you’d be dead wrong.  For it seems that power is in the eye of the beholder.  "If he’s already been with you and continues to pursue you, he likes you.  You’re in control ‘cause he wants dat ass again.  Power of the Pussy."  While I adore my male-friends and their ever-colorful use of the English language, they often provide me with a point-of-view that my female-friends would rarely, if ever consider.
However, one topic in particular, that has eluded my male-friends, both domestic and abroad, is that of MANSCAPING.  “Do you mind if we go full-seventies?  Maybe a trim?  Or just bic it?”  In my humble opinion, reinforced by data collected by me in a VERY unscientific survey of females of the Tri-State area, there is absolutely nothing more unsettling than finding the man you’re with to be completely hairless.  A seal, fresh outta water, from top to toe?  SKEEVES.  One would think that because men shave their faces on a regular basis they would find a proper technique for maintaining their anatomy.  In-grown hairs, razor burns – gentlemen, you’re better than this!  Besides, survey says that women would rather a MAN, blessed with tangled wisps of curly chest-hair, than a two-days post-shave prickly individual.
Though, as a Jewess, raised to fear the summer fight against the frizz, I sympathize for my male-friends with truly unruly follicles.  One that stands out has his Wifi network named, “MyBackHair,” password, “IsDisgusting.”  Yet he embraces his god-given gift, and on a nightly basis douses his chest-hair with some truly delicious smelling YSL.  “Hair retains scent better, and lemme tell ya, the ladies notice…”  So, friends, penis-bearing, and with and without a Greencard, I embrace my newfound female empowerment and advise you to nick the bic!  Either invest in a buzzer, or channel your inner Bradley Cooper a la American Hustle.  When it’s Oscar-nominated, can you really knock the flow?

Moroccan Oil, Intense Curl Cream, $22, Amazon.com.

Now, aside from my mother, I believe the only other readers of Fashionigma are my beaus past and present.  One of whom said he intended to keep up with Fashionigma, even after we went our separate ways, so as to improve his English… I regretted to inform my former darling that by reading Fashionigma, and consequently learning five different ways to say vagina, wouldn’t do him much good when conversing with anyone other than sick individuals like myself…

On my first marathon of a date with this same man, beginning with a couples massage at a spa in SoHo, lunch at Peels on Bowery, an afternoon of sangria and live jazz at the Frying Pan on the Hudson, which came to an elegant end with a belly full of Cabernet and hand-cut pasta in one of those ever-so-cozy date-spots in Williamsburg, he decreed in PERFECT English, “I love women.  You have so much power.  You control the world."  While many with whom I have shared a meal or two with would scoff at such an utterance as a fine addition to any feminist manifesto, the statement begs for more thoughtful consideration.  As a sex, do women have more power than we realize?

If you’re asking me who ‘won’ I’d have to say they did.  I mean, they got to sleep with me."  If you think a vageen-bearing individual said the previous statement you’d be dead wrong.  For it seems that power is in the eye of the beholder.  "If he’s already been with you and continues to pursue you, he likes you.  You’re in control ‘cause he wants dat ass again.  Power of the Pussy."  While I adore my male-friends and their ever-colorful use of the English language, they often provide me with a point-of-view that my female-friends would rarely, if ever consider.

However, one topic in particular, that has eluded my male-friends, both domestic and abroad, is that of MANSCAPING.  “Do you mind if we go full-seventies?  Maybe a trim?  Or just bic it?”  In my humble opinion, reinforced by data collected by me in a VERY unscientific survey of females of the Tri-State area, there is absolutely nothing more unsettling than finding the man you’re with to be completely hairless.  A seal, fresh outta water, from top to toe?  SKEEVES.  One would think that because men shave their faces on a regular basis they would find a proper technique for maintaining their anatomy.  In-grown hairs, razor burns – gentlemen, you’re better than this!  Besides, survey says that women would rather a MAN, blessed with tangled wisps of curly chest-hair, than a two-days post-shave prickly individual.

Though, as a Jewess, raised to fear the summer fight against the frizz, I sympathize for my male-friends with truly unruly follicles.  One that stands out has his Wifi network named, “MyBackHair,” password, “IsDisgusting.”  Yet he embraces his god-given gift, and on a nightly basis douses his chest-hair with some truly delicious smelling YSL.  “Hair retains scent better, and lemme tell ya, the ladies notice…”  So, friends, penis-bearing, and with and without a Greencard, I embrace my newfound female empowerment and advise you to nick the bic!  Either invest in a buzzer, or channel your inner Bradley Cooper a la American Hustle.  When it’s Oscar-nominated, can you really knock the flow?

Alexander Wang Prisma Tote in Parchment, $308, NeimanMarcus.com.
A betrayal that is truly severe, the sort that pierces the heart and pains the soul, is one that originates in your very own wardrobe.  You’ve spent your good money and you expect results, be them in compliments or, “So where did you go to camp?" pick-up lines.  So how did my school bag offend me so?  WELL, as I slammed the overstuffed sack down, what might you ask slipped from its interior?  A SUPER PLUS tampon of course!  And as fate would have it, the only individual in a Super Plus tampon recognition radius was none other than my Faux Law School Boyfrand!
A Faux Law School Boyfrand?  You know, that one guy you seem to always wind up sharing a table with in the library.  ”Ugh, it is just SO cold in THAT section."  And who threatens you by saying, "I’m gonna fuh-ck-ing kill you." when he spies you across the table SnapChating his agonizing struggle with a particular assignment.  That was a threat made out of love, right?  Right!  Because your Faux BF proves his sincerity and affection for you when he checks in with you when you’re late for class.  “Where are you?  Can you get me a Gatorade?”  And he can always be relied on to initiate a GChat in class, even when you’re sitting right next to each other!  ”Nice notes…"  "But it’s Friends & Family at Bloomies!”
Following “The Incident" ma Faux BF acted just like any good Real BF.  Even after I made the situation worse by reaching for the escaping tampon so fast I wound up slapping it well into his personal space.  I.E. He reacted in the same way as if I suggested what to watch on TV, "Oh!   Let’s watch GIRLS!  Lena Dunham is like THE voice of our generation."  …  "Con-Air is On-Demand.  Done."  He saw and heard nothing…  Now that’s faux-love.

Alexander Wang Prisma Tote in Parchment, $308, NeimanMarcus.com.

A betrayal that is truly severe, the sort that pierces the heart and pains the soul, is one that originates in your very own wardrobe.  You’ve spent your good money and you expect results, be them in compliments or, “So where did you go to camp?" pick-up lines.  So how did my school bag offend me so?  WELL, as I slammed the overstuffed sack down, what might you ask slipped from its interior?  A SUPER PLUS tampon of course!  And as fate would have it, the only individual in a Super Plus tampon recognition radius was none other than my Faux Law School Boyfrand!

A Faux Law School Boyfrand?  You know, that one guy you seem to always wind up sharing a table with in the library.  ”Ugh, it is just SO cold in THAT section."  And who threatens you by saying, "I’m gonna fuh-ck-ing kill you." when he spies you across the table SnapChating his agonizing struggle with a particular assignment.  That was a threat made out of love, right?  Right!  Because your Faux BF proves his sincerity and affection for you when he checks in with you when you’re late for class.  “Where are you?  Can you get me a Gatorade?”  And he can always be relied on to initiate a GChat in class, even when you’re sitting right next to each other!  ”Nice notes…"  "But it’s Friends & Family at Bloomies!

Following “The Incident" ma Faux BF acted just like any good Real BF.  Even after I made the situation worse by reaching for the escaping tampon so fast I wound up slapping it well into his personal space.  I.E. He reacted in the same way as if I suggested what to watch on TV, "Oh!   Let’s watch GIRLS!  Lena Dunham is like THE voice of our generation."  …  "Con-Air is On-Demand.  Done."  He saw and heard nothing…  Now that’s faux-love.

Acropolis Blue Plaid Flannel Shirt, J. Crew, $70, JCrew.com.

I wouldn’t call myself a thief PER SE.  I believe “Foster Parent” is a title most fitting of my actions, those being graciously offering a warm body to those sad and not-too-often worn items of clothing that within the depths of your heinously oversaturated closet have long been forgotten.  My most recent acquisition was that of a flannel shirt, appropriated after New York’s GREATEST Turkey Bacon Chef (he really has a way with that microwave of his) had gone off to work and left me struggling to put on pants, a symbolic act intended to signify the start of another New York morning.
Minutes before leaving he crushed me with the most fearsome rain of rancid farts you have ever smelled, and explained to me why I should be happy that his deafening blows bore him good health, “SBDs means you got a loose butthole, and ma butthole AIN’T loose!” I rightly debated whether I should face the chilly two-block walk to the Subway in nothing more than a Madewell tank, or snipe somethin’ from Booty Blaster.  Seeing as how he makes sure that every door in his apartment is closed off from one another so as not to mix different room’s air fresheners, I thought I’d be safe to risk it this one time.
“Great flannel! Where’d you get it?!” “Oh, it’s not mine, check the tag.” “Men’s Fitted Medium? Cavorting with hobbits again Danielle?” The Rainmaker happens to be a 6’ 1” fine lookin’ piece a man meat, so I could take such a remark to mean that I am in danger of becoming morbidly obese.  BUT seeing as that it’s Friday, I’ll spin it as a “D JUST BEIN’ D!” meaning: I make everything look damn good.

Acropolis Blue Plaid Flannel Shirt, J. Crew, $70, JCrew.com.

I wouldn’t call myself a thief PER SE.  I believe “Foster Parent” is a title most fitting of my actions, those being graciously offering a warm body to those sad and not-too-often worn items of clothing that within the depths of your heinously oversaturated closet have long been forgotten.  My most recent acquisition was that of a flannel shirt, appropriated after New York’s GREATEST Turkey Bacon Chef (he really has a way with that microwave of his) had gone off to work and left me struggling to put on pants, a symbolic act intended to signify the start of another New York morning.

Minutes before leaving he crushed me with the most fearsome rain of rancid farts you have ever smelled, and explained to me why I should be happy that his deafening blows bore him good health, “SBDs means you got a loose butthole, and ma butthole AIN’T loose!” I rightly debated whether I should face the chilly two-block walk to the Subway in nothing more than a Madewell tank, or snipe somethin’ from Booty Blaster.  Seeing as how he makes sure that every door in his apartment is closed off from one another so as not to mix different room’s air fresheners, I thought I’d be safe to risk it this one time.

Great flannel! Where’d you get it?!” “Oh, it’s not mine, check the tag.” “Men’s Fitted Medium? Cavorting with hobbits again Danielle?” The Rainmaker happens to be a 6’ 1” fine lookin’ piece a man meat, so I could take such a remark to mean that I am in danger of becoming morbidly obese.  BUT seeing as that it’s Friday, I’ll spin it as a “D JUST BEIN’ D!” meaning: I make everything look damn good.

Dare even ask what’s on the menu?
I have too often seen ma lady friend’s quietly address a beau’s bad behavior, which in turn is responded to with THE CLASSIC, “Stop being so sensitive!”  Instead of honestly addressing the inquiry, such emotional manipulation feeds the epidemic that defines women as irrational, moody, sensitive, and my personal favorite, CA-RAZY!  Even your girlfriends, who might have the best of intentions, can condition you to believe that what you are feeling isn’t normal.  “He hasn’t called in a week?  He still likes you!  He’s in finance, he’s just like, TOTALLY busy!” 
While society might have succeeded in stereotyping our sex as CA-RAZY, the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash these emotions is inherently false and unfair.  “Gaslighting” is the term that describes this manipulative behavior used to confuse someone into thinking their reaction is so completely off base, that they’re boiling yo kid’s bunny in a pot CA-RAZY.  The term comes from the film, “Gaslight,” in which Ingrid Bergman’s husband in the film intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker on and off, and every time Bergman’s character reacts to it, he tells her she’s seeing things.  WHERE EVER DID SHE FIND SUCH A GEM?!
The pessimist that I am, I have since resolved that logic, no matter how sound, will ever be understood by the male sex when cooed from the lips of a vagina-bearing individual.  Even when attempting to rationalize with those with whom you share a blood bond, the words you utter will only be heard as a cringe-worthy excerpt from, “The Vagina Monologues.”

Dare even ask what’s on the menu?

I have too often seen ma lady friend’s quietly address a beau’s bad behavior, which in turn is responded to with THE CLASSIC, “Stop being so sensitive!”  Instead of honestly addressing the inquiry, such emotional manipulation feeds the epidemic that defines women as irrational, moody, sensitive, and my personal favorite, CA-RAZY!  Even your girlfriends, who might have the best of intentions, can condition you to believe that what you are feeling isn’t normal.  “He hasn’t called in a week?  He still likes you!  He’s in finance, he’s just like, TOTALLY busy!” 

While society might have succeeded in stereotyping our sex as CA-RAZY, the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash these emotions is inherently false and unfair.  “Gaslighting” is the term that describes this manipulative behavior used to confuse someone into thinking their reaction is so completely off base, that they’re boiling yo kid’s bunny in a pot CA-RAZY.  The term comes from the film, “Gaslight,” in which Ingrid Bergman’s husband in the film intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker on and off, and every time Bergman’s character reacts to it, he tells her she’s seeing things.  WHERE EVER DID SHE FIND SUCH A GEM?!

The pessimist that I am, I have since resolved that logic, no matter how sound, will ever be understood by the male sex when cooed from the lips of a vagina-bearing individual.  Even when attempting to rationalize with those with whom you share a blood bond, the words you utter will only be heard as a cringe-worthy excerpt from, “The Vagina Monologues.”

Prada’s Spring 2011 ode to the future RISE of… “THE DICK PIC!”
“He downloaded SnapChat for me, which is a CLEAR indication of his interest!”  When I sent a none-too-thrilling “Whatcha up to?” text, I was deeply humbled when I in return received a SnapChat video of said expert conversationalist, WANKING IT!  “Is it not kinda sad that such a young, good-looking, professional Hockey player, who just won a mighty big game, is celebrating by sending you snippets of him jerkin’ it in his hotel room?” questioned one of my Besties With Testies, the female Millennial’s equivalent to a Jewish Mother.  Normally I’d have retorted with something cleverly biting, but this stick-fiddler is so damn good-lookin’, I couldn’t help but sympathize for the fact that he had been so misled!
Are we, the female sex, supposed to swoon at the captured image of your erect member?  Oh, I do remember my first… “You did this…” captioned my English Rose.  I suppose it was sweet, but beg pardon, was I meant to flush at the sight of it?  Ain’t nothin’ like a dismembered section of one’s anatomy to really tighten ya slacks. And it’s not that I’m not a fan of a particularly good-lookin’… ya know, but it ain’t like I turn into a mindless Zombie at first glance, as say, does a man when confronted with a particularly symmetric pair of nipples. 
What female has been promoting this fallacy that all women hunger for an up-close and harshly lit shot of yo baby maker?  There is something inherently unsettling about most dick pics, yet they still arrive in one’s inbox as welcome entertainment!  Do Snap away ma ‘lil Snap-happy friends!  Though I might not be in the state you longed for: about to soak right through ma Hanky Pankys and want you more than ever… strange angles?  MYSPACE THE FUCK OUTTA YO DICK!  One of my most wise and trusted advisors has pointed out that, “Dick pics are a CLEAR indicator of… longevity… WINK!”  I can offer my appreciation for you lettin’ me know what sort of work I’m in for: mental preparation, jaw exercises and the like, but if you’re lookin’ for some sort of reciprocation, an “eye for an eye” as Hammurabi would call it, I must ask… do you really wanna stare at it like that?  Rumor has it leads to blindness.

Prada’s Spring 2011 ode to the future RISE of… “THE DICK PIC!”

He downloaded SnapChat for me, which is a CLEAR indication of his interest!  When I sent a none-too-thrilling “Whatcha up to?” text, I was deeply humbled when I in return received a SnapChat video of said expert conversationalist, WANKING IT!  Is it not kinda sad that such a young, good-looking, professional Hockey player, who just won a mighty big game, is celebrating by sending you snippets of him jerkin’ it in his hotel room?” questioned one of my Besties With Testies, the female Millennial’s equivalent to a Jewish Mother.  Normally I’d have retorted with something cleverly biting, but this stick-fiddler is so damn good-lookin’, I couldn’t help but sympathize for the fact that he had been so misled!

Are we, the female sex, supposed to swoon at the captured image of your erect member?  Oh, I do remember my first… “You did this…” captioned my English Rose.  I suppose it was sweet, but beg pardon, was I meant to flush at the sight of it?  Ain’t nothin’ like a dismembered section of one’s anatomy to really tighten ya slacks. And it’s not that I’m not a fan of a particularly good-lookin’… ya know, but it ain’t like I turn into a mindless Zombie at first glance, as say, does a man when confronted with a particularly symmetric pair of nipples. 

What female has been promoting this fallacy that all women hunger for an up-close and harshly lit shot of yo baby maker?  There is something inherently unsettling about most dick pics, yet they still arrive in one’s inbox as welcome entertainment!  Do Snap away ma ‘lil Snap-happy friends!  Though I might not be in the state you longed for: about to soak right through ma Hanky Pankys and want you more than ever… strange angles?  MYSPACE THE FUCK OUTTA YO DICK!  One of my most wise and trusted advisors has pointed out that, “Dick pics are a CLEAR indicator of… longevity… WINK!”  I can offer my appreciation for you lettin’ me know what sort of work I’m in for: mental preparation, jaw exercises and the like, but if you’re lookin’ for some sort of reciprocation, an “eye for an eye” as Hammurabi would call it, I must ask… do you really wanna stare at it like that?  Rumor has it leads to blindness.

Pratesi Semplice’s Hotel Sheet Set, Queen Size, $535, Bloomingdales.com.
I remember the first time I read the famed “Bedside Astrologer,” Hazel Dixon-Cooper’s, “Love On A Rotten Day: An Astrological Survival Guide To Romance.”  I was curious to find what was written of my own sign.  “To get a Virgo between your sheets, first make sure the sheets are new." I never knew what she meant by that until the morning after my very first slumber party with an ex-beau.  ”Ugh, Danielle you’re everywhere!"  After processing the image of him shaking off a strand of Blonde hair, I replied, “I’m a Brunette." I now like to play with my men when they first experience a bout with my incessant shedding.  "Um… that’s not mine."  Of course, it always is one of my long curly strands, but I’m one sick little girl, and their look of fear is but an unmatched pleasure.
Now fellers, unless yo girl is too drunk to tell the difference, which I assume is not as often as you’d like, do expect your Female to inspect the pillow-topped cloud you have so graciously offered up for her to slumber upon this evening.  As a Vagina-bearing individual, I can personally guarantee that the number of bases you round will be in direct correlation to the state of your bed & general cleanliness of your bedroom.  The most astoundingly bad first-date I have ever been on ended with my entrance to his exorbitantly priced Co-Op floor littered with dirty clothes, nail clippings, hair balls & a dirty dish or five.  I have never before squat atop a toilet which belonged to someone I know… but I did that night.  And don’t think for a second that I entered his apartment under any pretense other than to use the restroom.  He had sealed his fate earlier in the night when he not only paid for dinner with a Groupon, but told me that he hasn’t masterbated in 6 years other than when he donated Sperm… every week… for a year.  I mean… you can’t make this stuff up… really.
‘Tis fitting then that while dating Le Belg, what I was most gracious for wasn’t his six pack abs… shoulders you could hang a suit on… or even the ass you could bounce a damn quarter off of… but it was Beata, Le Belg’s bi-weekly Maid!  Every Tuesday & Friday I could be damn well guaranteed to slumber upon freshly laundered sheets with a thread count not to be trifled with.  Call me a Princess, after all I am from Long Island (NOT to be confused with the fercockt Bravo reality show), but upon the start of any new sexual relationship, the last thing any girl wants to know, aside from your “number" (we think we want to know, we may beg, and we might even plead, but under no circumstances should you ever tell us), is your unhygienic boy habits.  If you don’t change your disgusting, sexed-up, wanked-in, sweat-upon bed-sheets on a regular basis, consider yourself a ghost, for your lass sure will.
A good friend of mine is absolutely manic about the state of her pillow-top.  The minute her man is out the door you can bet yo ass that bed is stripped faster than a Jewess on a first date with an Orthopedic Surgery Resident.  NOW THAT’S FAST!  Such is why before going to bed one evening, I recall my English Prince inspecting his pillows, drooled on by a recent house-guest while he was away on a business trip. “Darling, I flipped it!"  "The Flip," as you call it, is no doubt the first cousin of "Inside-Out Underwear.”  Sweetie, here’s a dollar, get yourself some quarters and I’ll show you all a Snuggle’s secrets.  Needless to say I side-eyed that footballin’ bastard all the way to the linen closet.
So… CHANGE YA DAMN SHEETS!  At least every one to two weeks, and absolutely after every sexual encounter.  Have you taken a peek at this week’s Heat Index?  Don’t try and tell me you simply “glisten."  Work it between those sheets, ain’t nobody got the time for Pi-Loxing!

Pratesi Semplice’s Hotel Sheet Set, Queen Size, $535, Bloomingdales.com.

I remember the first time I read the famed “Bedside Astrologer,” Hazel Dixon-Cooper’s, “Love On A Rotten Day: An Astrological Survival Guide To Romance.” I was curious to find what was written of my own sign. “To get a Virgo between your sheets, first make sure the sheets are new." I never knew what she meant by that until the morning after my very first slumber party with an ex-beau. Ugh, Danielle you’re everywhere!" After processing the image of him shaking off a strand of Blonde hair, I replied, “I’m a Brunette." I now like to play with my men when they first experience a bout with my incessant shedding. "Um… that’s not mine." Of course, it always is one of my long curly strands, but I’m one sick little girl, and their look of fear is but an unmatched pleasure.

Now fellers, unless yo girl is too drunk to tell the difference, which I assume is not as often as you’d like, do expect your Female to inspect the pillow-topped cloud you have so graciously offered up for her to slumber upon this evening. As a Vagina-bearing individual, I can personally guarantee that the number of bases you round will be in direct correlation to the state of your bed & general cleanliness of your bedroom. The most astoundingly bad first-date I have ever been on ended with my entrance to his exorbitantly priced Co-Op floor littered with dirty clothes, nail clippings, hair balls & a dirty dish or five. I have never before squat atop a toilet which belonged to someone I know… but I did that night. And don’t think for a second that I entered his apartment under any pretense other than to use the restroom. He had sealed his fate earlier in the night when he not only paid for dinner with a Groupon, but told me that he hasn’t masterbated in 6 years other than when he donated Sperm… every week… for a year. I mean… you can’t make this stuff up… really.

‘Tis fitting then that while dating Le Belg, what I was most gracious for wasn’t his six pack abs… shoulders you could hang a suit on… or even the ass you could bounce a damn quarter off of… but it was Beata, Le Belg’s bi-weekly Maid! Every Tuesday & Friday I could be damn well guaranteed to slumber upon freshly laundered sheets with a thread count not to be trifled with. Call me a Princess, after all I am from Long Island (NOT to be confused with the fercockt Bravo reality show), but upon the start of any new sexual relationship, the last thing any girl wants to know, aside from your “number" (we think we want to know, we may beg, and we might even plead, but under no circumstances should you ever tell us), is your unhygienic boy habits. If you don’t change your disgusting, sexed-up, wanked-in, sweat-upon bed-sheets on a regular basis, consider yourself a ghost, for your lass sure will.

A good friend of mine is absolutely manic about the state of her pillow-top. The minute her man is out the door you can bet yo ass that bed is stripped faster than a Jewess on a first date with an Orthopedic Surgery Resident. NOW THAT’S FAST! Such is why before going to bed one evening, I recall my English Prince inspecting his pillows, drooled on by a recent house-guest while he was away on a business trip. “Darling, I flipped it!" "The Flip," as you call it, is no doubt the first cousin of "Inside-Out Underwear.” Sweetie, here’s a dollar, get yourself some quarters and I’ll show you all a Snuggle’s secrets. Needless to say I side-eyed that footballin’ bastard all the way to the linen closet.

So… CHANGE YA DAMN SHEETS! At least every one to two weeks, and absolutely after every sexual encounter. Have you taken a peek at this week’s Heat Index? Don’t try and tell me you simply “glisten." Work it between those sheets, ain’t nobody got the time for Pi-Loxing!


James Colarusso’s “Slave Bracelet,” available in Silver ($575), Rose, White, and Yellow Gold ($2,850), JamesColarusso.com.
Born on August 25, “The Day of the Unabashed Extrovert,” so labeled by “The Secret Language of Birthdays,” (“’DIS SHIT REAL!”) I shamefully admit to being but a weak individual whom cannot bear to hold things in.  I do not mean this in the sense that I have Crohn’s Disease, but rather, when something purely comical happens to yours truly, do expect to hear it from my lips, and by lips I mean ma fast-typin’ thumbs.  However, on one particular occasion, perhaps screaming, “I think I just got American-Psycho-ed by a real-life Patrick Bateman!" at my non-English speaking Taxi driver was a bit much, even for me.  Still, be forewarned that the time may come when you receive a cryptic text from me in the wee hours of the morning that will read, "OMGAHZ! YOU’RE NEVER GONNA BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO ME!"  Please try and not be alarmed.  It is more than likely that I will have been involved in a spot of danger, and in this particular instance it was of the blowin’ up yo skirt variety.
 “Where do you find these WEIRD guys?" remarked one disapproving individual whose interest in my tale was only renewed when I divulged that it took but a brief pair of cocktails before this “Dom,” as a I now call him, had two fingers down my throat. It was quickly apparent that this Banker’s idea of foreplay was what every sixteen year old girl in my High School sought in a best friend: someone with whom one could ram a couple digits down the ‘ole trachea with.  How else does a pretty young thing expect to look good in that totally expensive Vix two-piece she bought especially for the Bahamas?!What’s even more ironic is that earlier that very day on my quite painful commute from Long Island into the big bad city of New York, I spied a pair of matching arm tattoos on a couple which read, “’Til Forever.”  While this type of elegance might be particular to the land of the tanned and gelled, what the two failed to realize is that “Forever" ain’t that long when your significant other revs your engine by takin’ a gamble with your ability to flood yo lungs with air.  

You would think that after having your best girlfriend investigate a man’s LinkedIn profile you need not worry about things like “light choking,” or being thrown into a wall or two, or three.  But alas, it is now readily apparent that Dominants and Submissives are not just relegated to your questionably stained copy of “50 Shades of Grey.”  Why can it be?!  A Christian Grey of my very own?!  
So perfectly fitting then is James Colarusso’s aptly named, “Slave Bracelet,” designed to be worn with the Cartier “Love Bracelet.”  If Dom wanted more from me than an opportunity to squander my carnal treasure, I might be so inclined to link this his way.  But alas, the Jewess that I am, I tend to stray from bondage, for we mustn’t let those forty years of wandering to have been in vain.

James Colarusso’s “Slave Bracelet,” available in Silver ($575), Rose, White, and Yellow Gold ($2,850), JamesColarusso.com.

Born on August 25, “The Day of the Unabashed Extrovert,” so labeled by “The Secret Language of Birthdays,” (“’DIS SHIT REAL!”) I shamefully admit to being but a weak individual whom cannot bear to hold things in. I do not mean this in the sense that I have Crohn’s Disease, but rather, when something purely comical happens to yours truly, do expect to hear it from my lips, and by lips I mean ma fast-typin’ thumbs. However, on one particular occasion, perhaps screaming, “I think I just got American-Psycho-ed by a real-life Patrick Bateman!" at my non-English speaking Taxi driver was a bit much, even for me. Still, be forewarned that the time may come when you receive a cryptic text from me in the wee hours of the morning that will read, "OMGAHZ! YOU’RE NEVER GONNA BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED TO ME!" Please try and not be alarmed. It is more than likely that I will have been involved in a spot of danger, and in this particular instance it was of the blowin’ up yo skirt variety.

Where do you find these WEIRD guys?" remarked one disapproving individual whose interest in my tale was only renewed when I divulged that it took but a brief pair of cocktails before this “Dom,” as a I now call him, had two fingers down my throat. It was quickly apparent that this Banker’s idea of foreplay was what every sixteen year old girl in my High School sought in a best friend: someone with whom one could ram a couple digits down the ‘ole trachea with. How else does a pretty young thing expect to look good in that totally expensive Vix two-piece she bought especially for the Bahamas?!

What’s even more ironic is that earlier that very day on my quite painful commute from Long Island into the big bad city of New York, I spied a pair of matching arm tattoos on a couple which read, “’Til Forever.” While this type of elegance might be particular to the land of the tanned and gelled, what the two failed to realize is that “Forever" ain’t that long when your significant other revs your engine by takin’ a gamble with your ability to flood yo lungs with air.

You would think that after having your best girlfriend investigate a man’s LinkedIn profile you need not worry about things like “light choking,” or being thrown into a wall or two, or three. But alas, it is now readily apparent that Dominants and Submissives are not just relegated to your questionably stained copy of “50 Shades of Grey.” Why can it be?! A Christian Grey of my very own?!

So perfectly fitting then is James Colarusso’s aptly named, “Slave Bracelet,” designed to be worn with the Cartier “Love Bracelet.” If Dom wanted more from me than an opportunity to squander my carnal treasure, I might be so inclined to link this his way. But alas, the Jewess that I am, I tend to stray from bondage, for we mustn’t let those forty years of wandering to have been in vain.



Khai Khai “#Hashtag” Ring, $945, KhaiKhaiJewelry.com.
#ModernRomance
Is the “Unfollow” the new breakup? Or in many cases, “We are no longer having sex.” OR, “I will no longer be texting you to come over at 10PM on Monday through Wednesdays or when I am painfully bored and I’ve watched everything on my DVR.” If the term, “Unfollow” seems foreign to you, all of you Facebook users may substitute in the word, “Defriend.” Facebook? God, what are you, like 30?
Are we, those Millennials navigating the brave new world of Social Media, bound by an unwritten code of etiquette? Though I dare not delve a damn pinky-toe into the topic of “Cyber-Stalking;” On a strict focus of “Unfollowing,” or “Defriending,” what do proper manners dictate? Is the “Unfollow,” the passive-agressive, “I’ll call you.” of the new millennium? If things ended poorly, I suppose you wouldn’t want the constant flurry of vintage-looking photos of thier Omlettes… You two had that in common… a love of… Omlettes. Unfollow! But what if their photos have great composition? And they make excellent use of Kelvin! That’s like a totally hard filter to master! We’re not talkin’ “LIKING” anything here, we have a focus remember?! BUT, if you remain a loyal follower are you now… creeping?
Is Social Media propelling us into an ever-tormenting state of perpetual social anxiety? Sadly, I pose more questions here than even thirty minutes of Carrie Bradshaw can answer… “WHO?!” She’s only THE Hannah Horvath of 1998! Though, so as to not leave you completely wanting, I advocate for you to make a choice within the bounds of your own good reasoning. Personally, I use every Social Media platform for their intended purpose. And by every, I mean the three I have managed to become proficient at:
FACEBOOK:
Are we friends? Do we have a relationship outside of having both been in Mr. Abbott’s 7th grade Earth Science class? No? Defriend!
TWITTER: 
Do you provide me with a constant stream of relevant and/or useful information OR funny ‘lil anecdotes? No? You only use Twitter when you have news of critical importance to share? Like letting the masses know you’ve checked-in and are now the Mayor of the Second Avenue Starbucks? Unfollow!
INSTAGRAM:
Three versions of the same photo of you and “The GIRLS!!!” Each with subtle differences of course! 1: Smilling; 2: Kissy Face; 3: Funny Face. Sweetie, that is what Facebook is for! Unfollow!
I expect an onslaught of hateful text-messages from those who now realize and are angered by my dismissal of their use of Social Media. I’d apologize, but I’m a Virgo which means a constant, possibly OCD-level of editing those whom I “Follow” / am “Friends” with. Besides, it’s a harsh modern world we live in, and phone calls are so NOT 2013.

Khai Khai “#Hashtag” Ring, $945, KhaiKhaiJewelry.com.

#ModernRomance

Is the “Unfollow” the new breakup? Or in many cases, “We are no longer having sex.” OR, “I will no longer be texting you to come over at 10PM on Monday through Wednesdays or when I am painfully bored and I’ve watched everything on my DVR.” If the term, “Unfollow” seems foreign to you, all of you Facebook users may substitute in the word, “Defriend.Facebook? God, what are you, like 30?

Are we, those Millennials navigating the brave new world of Social Media, bound by an unwritten code of etiquette? Though I dare not delve a damn pinky-toe into the topic of “Cyber-Stalking;” On a strict focus of “Unfollowing,” or “Defriending,” what do proper manners dictate? Is the “Unfollow,” the passive-agressive, “I’ll call you.” of the new millennium? If things ended poorly, I suppose you wouldn’t want the constant flurry of vintage-looking photos of thier Omlettes… You two had that in common… a love of… Omlettes. Unfollow! But what if their photos have great composition? And they make excellent use of Kelvin! That’s like a totally hard filter to master! We’re not talkin’ “LIKING” anything here, we have a focus remember?! BUT, if you remain a loyal follower are you now… creeping?

Is Social Media propelling us into an ever-tormenting state of perpetual social anxiety? Sadly, I pose more questions here than even thirty minutes of Carrie Bradshaw can answer… “WHO?!” She’s only THE Hannah Horvath of 1998! Though, so as to not leave you completely wanting, I advocate for you to make a choice within the bounds of your own good reasoning. Personally, I use every Social Media platform for their intended purpose. And by every, I mean the three I have managed to become proficient at:

FACEBOOK:

Are we friends? Do we have a relationship outside of having both been in Mr. Abbott’s 7th grade Earth Science class? No? Defriend!

TWITTER:

Do you provide me with a constant stream of relevant and/or useful information OR funny ‘lil anecdotes? No? You only use Twitter when you have news of critical importance to share? Like letting the masses know you’ve checked-in and are now the Mayor of the Second Avenue Starbucks? Unfollow!

INSTAGRAM:

Three versions of the same photo of you and “The GIRLS!!!” Each with subtle differences of course! 1: Smilling; 2: Kissy Face; 3: Funny Face. Sweetie, that is what Facebook is for! Unfollow!

I expect an onslaught of hateful text-messages from those who now realize and are angered by my dismissal of their use of Social Media. I’d apologize, but I’m a Virgo which means a constant, possibly OCD-level of editing those whom I “Follow” / am “Friends” with. Besides, it’s a harsh modern world we live in, and phone calls are so NOT 2013.

Lulu Frost Psyche Drop Earring, $145, LuluFrost.com.
Early Saturday evening, when the air was cool, but not freezing, I thought, “Somebody slap that Hog with a treat!  Spring IS here Punxsutawney!”  Had I considered some rational thought for a moment or two, I would have recognized that 40 degree weather does not induce the Tulips to bloom.  As I disregarded what thousands of years of human evolution was telling my brain, I deluded myself into thinking that a “Nearly-Naked Blouse” was suitable attire for evening if accessorized properly.  A “Nearly-Naked Blouse?”  Such is a top which closes with merely one button.  Your Jewish Mother might refer to such an item of clothing as “Trampy.”  So, on it went!  The look was made complete with my newly acquired “Super Skinny” velvet JBrands, and Lulu Frost ”Psyche” drop earrings.  VOILA, DATE NIGHT!
For those of you, like my date, who are not from New York, here is a piece of advice: The yellow ones DO NOT stop.  This is a lesson a very dear friend of mine learned the hard way one fateful evening… Oh, she’s ALIVE!  Her phone on the other hand was very, very DEAD.  So as this Ohioan & I made our way from drinks to dinner, he nearly got himself killed by an oncoming taxi.  Was to be expected… but does laughing at another’s misstep make me a true New Yorker?  
Now struttin’ down Greenwich Avenue to compensate for his dance with death, I noticed that he was sans jacket.  Had I found my match?!  Opting for style at the cost of warmth?!  Gentlemanly Gentile would be appalled!  ”Babe… just bring it…"  The Fair Isle hat GG had forced me into for the duration of my very first New York Giants game TOTALLY crushed my fresh blowout… priorities.  
Though I am fairly new to adventures in dating, having been one of THOSE girls in college, ALWAYS with a boyfriend, I have found that suitors almost always opt-out of dessert.  A consistency made moot on Saturday.  With a plate of warm cookies and a glass of… milk between us, he went for it and… double-dunked. 
Endeared, I later emerged from applying a bit of post-meal gloss to the sight of him waiting with two Champagne flutes.  Be it that I am without fail THE clumsiest Bish you’ll ever meet, think JLaw at the Oscars, I inevitably broke a glass.  But the shrieks of, “Not my cashmere sweater!" did not emanate from my mouth… Looking back, having allowed him to pick me up while shopping at Dior, I had it comin’.

Lulu Frost Psyche Drop Earring, $145, LuluFrost.com.

Early Saturday evening, when the air was cool, but not freezing, I thought, “Somebody slap that Hog with a treat!  Spring IS here Punxsutawney!”  Had I considered some rational thought for a moment or two, I would have recognized that 40 degree weather does not induce the Tulips to bloom.  As I disregarded what thousands of years of human evolution was telling my brain, I deluded myself into thinking that a “Nearly-Naked Blouse” was suitable attire for evening if accessorized properly.  A “Nearly-Naked Blouse?”  Such is a top which closes with merely one button.  Your Jewish Mother might refer to such an item of clothing as “Trampy.”  So, on it went!  The look was made complete with my newly acquired “Super Skinny” velvet JBrands, and Lulu Frost ”Psyche” drop earrings.  VOILA, DATE NIGHT!

For those of you, like my date, who are not from New York, here is a piece of advice: The yellow ones DO NOT stop.  This is a lesson a very dear friend of mine learned the hard way one fateful evening… Oh, she’s ALIVE!  Her phone on the other hand was very, very DEAD.  So as this Ohioan & I made our way from drinks to dinner, he nearly got himself killed by an oncoming taxi.  Was to be expected… but does laughing at another’s misstep make me a true New Yorker?  

Now struttin’ down Greenwich Avenue to compensate for his dance with death, I noticed that he was sans jacket.  Had I found my match?!  Opting for style at the cost of warmth?!  Gentlemanly Gentile would be appalled!  ”Babe… just bring it…"  The Fair Isle hat GG had forced me into for the duration of my very first New York Giants game TOTALLY crushed my fresh blowout… priorities.  

Though I am fairly new to adventures in dating, having been one of THOSE girls in college, ALWAYS with a boyfriend, I have found that suitors almost always opt-out of dessert.  A consistency made moot on Saturday.  With a plate of warm cookies and a glass of… milk between us, he went for it and… double-dunked

Endeared, I later emerged from applying a bit of post-meal gloss to the sight of him waiting with two Champagne flutes.  Be it that I am without fail THE clumsiest Bish you’ll ever meet, think JLaw at the Oscars, I inevitably broke a glass.  But the shrieks of, “Not my cashmere sweater!" did not emanate from my mouth… Looking back, having allowed him to pick me up while shopping at Dior, I had it comin’.

Christian Louboutin Pigalle Spikes, $1,195, Barneys.com. 
I was once told, “Sometimes the best gifts are the ones we give ourselves."  But the GUILT?!  I was raised to know the value of a dollar and $1,195?!  On a single pair of… SHOES?!  It seems blasphemous!  Such is why, I shall never again fault a  man for offering me the blessed gift of shoes.  Oh the regret!  Who am I to deny one the pleasure of adorning my feet in the luxury of Italian leather?  I thought I was clever, “I went to liberal arts college, I am educated, intelligent, and entirely self-sufficient!  Keep your… SHOES!”  Well, I too can be all of those things while walkin’ around in a product of thousands of years of Roman innovation and craftsmanship!
Yet when a rather precocious attempted-suitor tried to convince me to go on a trip with him recently, I informed him of my thoughts on “gifting.”  He, being Ivy-League educated, was intent on convincing me how my commentary was entirely misplaced, as a trip cannot be compared to a shoe, as a trip is a “shared experience,” whereas a shoe is wrought with materialism.  I beg to differ!  Had I a shoe, I would be readily equipped to bolt from him when he began to smother me in such pretentious banter!  Now that is practicality!  Besides sir, a jaunt to Houston?  ”Houston is a place for a layover on your way to Cabo.“ 
The lesson here?  Fall prey to temptation, and have no regrets!  There is always a Return Policy, Consignment Store, or a dose of Plan B to ease your remorse!  So whether I accept these glorious Louboutin's via gift, or grudgingly hand over a hefty chunk of my Bat Mitzvah cash, I will have them… someday.  And should the mood strike YOU, I wear a size 41, and you can EMail me for a delivery address.

Christian Louboutin Pigalle Spikes, $1,195, Barneys.com

I was once told, “Sometimes the best gifts are the ones we give ourselves."  But the GUILT?!  I was raised to know the value of a dollar and $1,195?!  On a single pair of… SHOES?!  It seems blasphemous!  Such is why, I shall never again fault a  man for offering me the blessed gift of shoes.  Oh the regret!  Who am I to deny one the pleasure of adorning my feet in the luxury of Italian leather?  I thought I was clever, “I went to liberal arts college, I am educated, intelligent, and entirely self-sufficient!  Keep your… SHOES!”  Well, I too can be all of those things while walkin’ around in a product of thousands of years of Roman innovation and craftsmanship!

Yet when a rather precocious attempted-suitor tried to convince me to go on a trip with him recently, I informed him of my thoughts on “gifting.”  He, being Ivy-League educated, was intent on convincing me how my commentary was entirely misplaced, as a trip cannot be compared to a shoe, as a trip is a “shared experience,” whereas a shoe is wrought with materialism.  I beg to differ!  Had I a shoe, I would be readily equipped to bolt from him when he began to smother me in such pretentious banter!  Now that is practicality!  Besides sir, a jaunt to Houston?  ”Houston is a place for a layover on your way to Cabo.“ 

The lesson here?  Fall prey to temptation, and have no regrets!  There is always a Return Policy, Consignment Store, or a dose of Plan B to ease your remorse!  So whether I accept these glorious Louboutin's via gift, or grudgingly hand over a hefty chunk of my Bat Mitzvah cash, I will have them… someday.  And should the mood strike YOU, I wear a size 41, and you can EMail me for a delivery address.

David Gandy in London, Photographed by Tommy Ton (via JakAndJil.com).
Are you one of those girls with “options” this Valentine’s Day?  Those options being A. Pullin’ ‘Suicide Watch' with the crew, OR B. Washing down some Xanax with a bottle of Pinot Grigio over a Real Housewives marathon.  If you fall into neither category, consider yourself a goddamn Unicorn.
Being that it is Valentine’s Day, I gift to you a feast for the eyes!  Nothin’ makes me go thump in the night quite like a finely dressed man, especially when that man is David Gandy.  And though I may revere the smartly dressed suitor, such a thing intimidated me once…
Gentlemanly Gentile's work-attire consists of custom-tailored suits that induce all the lady-thumpin' one Giorgio Armani had intended.  Yet some time ago, when we went on a brief trip to Saks, what was hidden underneath his winter-coat brought me great relief… that too, but no, it was the look that no man can master, his 3/4 sleeve, Pink Floyd softball-tee that put me at ease.  ”Anything else today?" chirped his Personal Shopper.  "…How about some shirts?”

David Gandy in London, Photographed by Tommy Ton (via JakAndJil.com).

Are you one of those girls with “options” this Valentine’s Day?  Those options being A. Pullin’ ‘Suicide Watch' with the crew, OR B. Washing down some Xanax with a bottle of Pinot Grigio over a Real Housewives marathon.  If you fall into neither category, consider yourself a goddamn Unicorn.

Being that it is Valentine’s Day, I gift to you a feast for the eyes!  Nothin’ makes me go thump in the night quite like a finely dressed man, especially when that man is David Gandy.  And though I may revere the smartly dressed suitor, such a thing intimidated me once…

Gentlemanly Gentile's work-attire consists of custom-tailored suits that induce all the lady-thumpin' one Giorgio Armani had intended.  Yet some time ago, when we went on a brief trip to Saks, what was hidden underneath his winter-coat brought me great relief… that too, but no, it was the look that no man can master, his 3/4 sleeve, Pink Floyd softball-tee that put me at ease.  ”Anything else today?" chirped his Personal Shopper.  "…How about some shirts?

Catstudio, Embroidered New York City Pillow, $158, Catstudio.com.
Today I bore the deciding vote in a furious debate that began with, “I don’t know about this one… he’s obsessed with his Bloomingdales throw pillows!  I mean is he or isn’t he?”  As chance would have it, I too have questioned… the pillows. 
Leaving his building for the very first time, I distinctly remember a brief moment in which my Gentlemanly Gentile paused at the armchair in his lobby, and decided to toss it’s accent pillow high into the air, placing it down just so (the final “chop” down the center really threw me).  Weeks later when he repeated this ritual with the nearly twenty pillows that adorned his living room couch, I questioned his constant… fluffing.  His defense?  “I like things to look a certain way!  When I have guests out east they gotta make their beds everyday.  Can’t figure it out?  I tell ‘em to take a picture & that’s how it should look!’”  Control Freak?  Diagnosable Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?  I did once wake to find my clothes (thrown about from the night’s romantic interlude) folded neatly in the armchair in the corner of his bedroom… “Did you do that?”
A male friend has warned me that a man and his pillows are not to be questioned.  “This is New York!  If you cast-off every suitor with ‘metro-sexual’ compulsions, your dating pool would cease to exist!”  And this piece of advice has already proven correct, for when I questioned yet another fluffer, his response?  ”I do that before I leave the house everyday, and I can also kick the shit out of anyone.”  How barbaric!

Catstudio, Embroidered New York City Pillow, $158, Catstudio.com.

Today I bore the deciding vote in a furious debate that began with, “I don’t know about this one… he’s obsessed with his Bloomingdales throw pillows!  I mean is he or isn’t he?”  As chance would have it, I too have questioned the pillows.

Leaving his building for the very first time, I distinctly remember a brief moment in which my Gentlemanly Gentile paused at the armchair in his lobby, and decided to toss it’s accent pillow high into the air, placing it down just so (the final “chop” down the center really threw me).  Weeks later when he repeated this ritual with the nearly twenty pillows that adorned his living room couch, I questioned his constant… fluffing.  His defense?  “I like things to look a certain way!  When I have guests out east they gotta make their beds everyday.  Can’t figure it out?  I tell ‘em to take a picture & that’s how it should look!’”  Control Freak?  Diagnosable Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?  I did once wake to find my clothes (thrown about from the night’s romantic interlude) folded neatly in the armchair in the corner of his bedroom… “Did you do that?

A male friend has warned me that a man and his pillows are not to be questioned.  “This is New York!  If you cast-off every suitor with ‘metro-sexual’ compulsions, your dating pool would cease to exist!”  And this piece of advice has already proven correct, for when I questioned yet another fluffer, his response?  ”I do that before I leave the house everyday, and I can also kick the shit out of anyone.”  How barbaric!

Brian Atwood “Temptation” Sandal, $295, theoutnet.com.  
“I’m confused, are you going to a hoedown, or for drinks in SoHo?” Doling fashion critiques from what was neither my room, nor my apartment, I have become the Gyspy Roommate whom earns her keep in the form of cheeky, and possibly unwanted witticisms. 
As inhabitants of Manhattan, we have all grown accustomed to the beautiful girls that this fair city attracts.  My darling friends fall among them, yet not a one stands under 5’ 6”. “He’s short, I can’t wear heels!  I don’t want to make him feel bad!”  While I can sympathize with her struggles with “Giantess,” those cowboy boots were not going to lead to any toe curling in the wee hours of the morning.  
Yet fortune has been kind to me lately.  Why it was just last month a date asked, “How tall are you?”  “5’ 8”, 6’ 1” in heels…” I replied formulaically.  But as I peered up from my Brian Atwoods, did I catch him smirking in approval?  Standing at 6’ 3”, how had I just realized that myself, and Mr. Please allow me to run around the car in this mild tsunami, for the small honor of opening your car door, were eye to eye?  Finally I had discovered the unspoken luxury of dating a Gentile.
As singletons, I must advocate for you to be yourself from the get-go.  If not drinks in SoHo, there will be a date in the not-so-far-off future in which Mr. Cruise will realize your vertical blessings.  Allowing him to familiarize himself with your other gifts in the meanwhile will not in any way alter how he reacts to the realization that he is dating a rather leggy lady.
Take my Gentlemanly Gentile.  I not only managed to slam my head into the car door within the first five minutes of our first date, but I was also lucky enough to lose my cell phone on the same evening.  There was no better way to reveal that he was in for it with one clumsy bitch.  And just six weeks later he had the pleasure of helping me hobble my ass to our movie date.  I wasn’t courageous enough to bring the cane to the theatre, but between my broken foot and him exasperating for three hours about the kid kicking the back of his seat, romance has never been more alive.

Brian Atwood “Temptation” Sandal, $295, theoutnet.com.  

I’m confused, are you going to a hoedown, or for drinks in SoHo?” Doling fashion critiques from what was neither my room, nor my apartment, I have become the Gyspy Roommate whom earns her keep in the form of cheeky, and possibly unwanted witticisms. 

As inhabitants of Manhattan, we have all grown accustomed to the beautiful girls that this fair city attracts.  My darling friends fall among them, yet not a one stands under 5’ 6”. “He’s short, I can’t wear heels!  I don’t want to make him feel bad!  While I can sympathize with her struggles with “Giantess,” those cowboy boots were not going to lead to any toe curling in the wee hours of the morning.  

Yet fortune has been kind to me lately.  Why it was just last month a date asked, “How tall are you?”  “5’ 8”, 6’ 1” in heels…” I replied formulaically.  But as I peered up from my Brian Atwoods, did I catch him smirking in approval?  Standing at 6’ 3”, how had I just realized that myself, and Mr. Please allow me to run around the car in this mild tsunami, for the small honor of opening your car door, were eye to eye?  Finally I had discovered the unspoken luxury of dating a Gentile.

As singletons, I must advocate for you to be yourself from the get-go.  If not drinks in SoHo, there will be a date in the not-so-far-off future in which Mr. Cruise will realize your vertical blessings.  Allowing him to familiarize himself with your other gifts in the meanwhile will not in any way alter how he reacts to the realization that he is dating a rather leggy lady.

Take my Gentlemanly Gentile.  I not only managed to slam my head into the car door within the first five minutes of our first date, but I was also lucky enough to lose my cell phone on the same evening.  There was no better way to reveal that he was in for it with one clumsy bitch.  And just six weeks later he had the pleasure of helping me hobble my ass to our movie date.  I wasn’t courageous enough to bring the cane to the theatre, but between my broken foot and him exasperating for three hours about the kid kicking the back of his seat, romance has never been more alive.