Fashionigma

Because the well dressed can be well read.
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.

Nike Women’s In Season TR II, $75, Nike.com. “Did you just come from the gym?” “Fuck you Beardo!“is how this conversation usually goes when I rock these Nike’s in a non-ironic fashion.  After all, it is Movember! In true Fashionigma form I will find some way to relate this post to a past relationship.  So yes, I did buy these several months ago when I was dating a guy who I planned to take many a jaunt with.  ”Get yourself some running sneakers, and we can hit the paths in Central Park!” Since my beau’s accent hypnotized me into most activities I agreed to, ”planned” may be a rather generous term.  ”Subdued into submission” might be more appropriate.   So as not to embarrass myself in the presence of my Adonis, I decided to take a practice run.  Let’s see now.  I got a cramp in less than 2 blocks, walked about a mile, and then proceed to reward my “efforts” with some sugar-free fro-yo.  ”Babe, how did you feel? Running is fantastic, no?” “I may do better in water… how do you feel about swim caps?”   I’m not saying it was my inability to get these tree trunks moving at rapid speeds without inducing ventricle fibrillation that caused Sporto to kick the bucket, but now, not only am I stuck with a “You’ll look so cute with some shiny black leggings, and a white v-neck tee that shows just enough cleave!” pair of “running” shoes, but I am still rockin’ an excellent example of the pear-shaped form.  ”You have some serious childbearing hips!” is a phrase that still haunts the “Ex-Boyfriends” file in my mind.   Being that I don’t, will never, and cannot run, did I find myself in a predicament?  Pfft.  Maybe for the less fashion-forward!  ”Athlete-Chic,” is totally on-trend!  But then again, when I showed up at the bar last night I could most certainly count on my friends to say things like “You didn’t change?” to put me right back in my place.

Nike Women’s In Season TR II, $75, Nike.com.

“Did you just come from the gym?” “Fuck you Beardo!“is how this conversation usually goes when I rock these Nike’s in a non-ironic fashion.  After all, it is Movember!

In true Fashionigma form I will find some way to relate this post to a past relationship.  So yes, I did buy these several months ago when I was dating a guy who I planned to take many a jaunt with.  ”Get yourself some running sneakers, and we can hit the paths in Central Park!” Since my beau’s accent hypnotized me into most activities I agreed to, ”planned” may be a rather generous term.  ”Subdued into submission” might be more appropriate.  

So as not to embarrass myself in the presence of my Adonis, I decided to take a practice run.  Let’s see now.  I got a cramp in less than 2 blocks, walked about a mile, and then proceed to reward my “efforts” with some sugar-free fro-yo.  ”Babe, how did you feel? Running is fantastic, no?” “I may do better in water… how do you feel about swim caps?”  

I’m not saying it was my inability to get these tree trunks moving at rapid speeds without inducing ventricle fibrillation that caused Sporto to kick the bucket, but now, not only am I stuck with a “You’ll look so cute with some shiny black leggings, and a white v-neck tee that shows just enough cleave!” pair of “running” shoes, but I am still rockin’ an excellent example of the pear-shaped form.  ”You have some serious childbearing hips!” is a phrase that still haunts the “Ex-Boyfriends” file in my mind.  

Being that I don’t, will never, and cannot run, did I find myself in a predicament?  Pfft.  Maybe for the less fashion-forward!  ”Athlete-Chic,” is totally on-trend!  But then again, when I showed up at the bar last night I could most certainly count on my friends to say things like “You didn’t change?” to put me right back in my place.

What in name of Jehova kinda church goin’ outfit is this?  Mitt we thought you was a Morman who ‘aint got no hoes, no need to appease Snoop by forcin’ Ann to turn tricks in the “Devil’s Red.”  While I understand that the debate was set in Boca Raton, Florida, and with Wheel of Fortune being the most highly rated show in the region it was gonna be a fierce battle for 9PM time slot, but the last time I donned a getup with this much access it was Bar Mitzvah season and my nipples had only just matured into Kneidlach. (Via L. Shea)

What in name of Jehova kinda church goin’ outfit is this?  Mitt we thought you was a Morman who ‘aint got no hoes, no need to appease Snoop by forcin’ Ann to turn tricks in the “Devil’s Red.”  While I understand that the debate was set in Boca Raton, Florida, and with Wheel of Fortune being the most highly rated show in the region it was gonna be a fierce battle for 9PM time slot, but the last time I donned a getup with this much access it was Bar Mitzvah season and my nipples had only just matured into Kneidlach.

(Via L. Shea)

James Perse, Asymmetrical Off Shoulder Dress, $95, Nordstrom.com. “Stop pulling it down!  You’re tjuzing in all the wrong places!”  While ineffective tjuzing of this James Perse number would certainly be a travesty, it wouldn’t be the feather that broke my post-breakup back this evening (visible ribs).  I had effectively hit all of my “Woman About Town” marks.  Victoria’s Secret hair?  Check.  Bronzed glow a la Mystic?  Check.  A French manicure?  Che — what is it about a French manicure?  It’s very “New Jersey Housewife” OR “Bedsty Prostitute.”  Either or.  But more importantly, it’s like cocknip. Now, when the first stop of the evening takes you to the birthday party of a DJ named Danger Jelly, you know things are bound to get weird.  Well, second stop if you count salads at L’Esquina.  Although I am not quite sure we should call it dinner since all ma lady date did was stare at her phone hollerin’, “I’m sorry, I’m listening! I just can’t believe what an asshole he is being right now!” (#BoyfriendDramzies) and I basically muttered to myself for an hour while throwing Margaritas down my throat like I was on a pre-date Adderall cleanse. “Ah-pee bert-day!”  There is something quite ominous about being handed an envelope by an ex-lover in a hotel bar.  ”HIV RESULTS” or something far more warty and puss-filled than “JAY Z AT THE BARCLAYS CENTER” was expected.  ”Aw! You guys are like the cutest couple! But would you mind if…”  Listen pillow-lips!  I know you need a Pinot Grigio like you need someone to ply the tweezer out of your hand when they’re near your eyebrows, but would you quit distracting me with those Restylane-infused slugs sitting on your chin while I try to understand where he’s going with this?! Three Mojitos and one awkward goodbye later, the Belgian had left me in the care of Wall Street’s finest.  “So was that your boyfriend?”  Although this gentleman had a polka-dotted pocket square that just wouldn’t quit, not even a healthy dose of lady-Viagra would help the case of this poor WASP.  Apparently I have developed a rather unpleasant penchant for a man with at least three buttons undone.  ”No Goldman Sachs, he was not my boyfriend.” “But isn’t that a gift you’re hol — how did you know where I worked?” So while James Perse didn’t pique the interest of one Prada infused Belgian, he did help me score a sweet pair of Jay Z tickets and five free rounds.  Though I may never again run through Central Park at night screaming, “I can’t believe you brought me here, I’m so going to get raped!” our evening at The James Hotel exposed me to enough man-cleavage to last me through the Fall.

James Perse, Asymmetrical Off Shoulder Dress, $95, Nordstrom.com.

“Stop pulling it down!  You’re tjuzing in all the wrong places!”  While ineffective tjuzing of this James Perse number would certainly be a travesty, it wouldn’t be the feather that broke my post-breakup back this evening (visible ribs).  I had effectively hit all of my “Woman About Town” marks.  Victoria’s Secret hair?  Check.  Bronzed glow a la Mystic?  Check.  A French manicure?  Che — what is it about a French manicure?  It’s very “New Jersey Housewife” OR “Bedsty Prostitute.”  Either or.  But more importantly, it’s like cocknip.

Now, when the first stop of the evening takes you to the birthday party of a DJ named Danger Jelly, you know things are bound to get weird.  Well, second stop if you count salads at L’Esquina.  Although I am not quite sure we should call it dinner since all ma lady date did was stare at her phone hollerin’, “I’m sorry, I’m listening! I just can’t believe what an asshole he is being right now!” (#BoyfriendDramzies) and I basically muttered to myself for an hour while throwing Margaritas down my throat like I was on a pre-date Adderall cleanse.

“Ah-pee bert-day!”  There is something quite ominous about being handed an envelope by an ex-lover in a hotel bar.  ”HIV RESULTS” or something far more warty and puss-filled than “JAY Z AT THE BARCLAYS CENTER” was expected.  ”Aw! You guys are like the cutest couple! But would you mind if…”  Listen pillow-lips!  I know you need a Pinot Grigio like you need someone to ply the tweezer out of your hand when they’re near your eyebrows, but would you quit distracting me with those Restylane-infused slugs sitting on your chin while I try to understand where he’s going with this?!

Three Mojitos and one awkward goodbye later, the Belgian had left me in the care of Wall Street’s finest.  “So was that your boyfriend?”  Although this gentleman had a polka-dotted pocket square that just wouldn’t quit, not even a healthy dose of lady-Viagra would help the case of this poor WASP.  Apparently I have developed a rather unpleasant penchant for a man with at least three buttons undone.  ”No Goldman Sachs, he was not my boyfriend.” “But isn’t that a gift you’re hol — how did you know where I worked?”

So while James Perse didn’t pique the interest of one Prada infused Belgian, he did help me score a sweet pair of Jay Z tickets and five free rounds.  Though I may never again run through Central Park at night screaming, “I can’t believe you brought me here, I’m so going to get raped!” our evening at The James Hotel exposed me to enough man-cleavage to last me through the Fall.

Hourglass Veil Mineral Primer, .33 oz, $18, Sephora.com. What is happening to those with whom I associate, hm?  Am I that much of a Jewish nag that I have driven each of them to the bottle, now forcing them to detox?  Today marks another loss.  I received a text which read, “I’m cutting out alcohol.”  WHY?!  How are we supposed to tolerate “3 buttons undone” men without it?  There is no other way!As I have told these dummies and will now share with you - cutting anything out of your daily regimen is just bad, bad, bad for business.  Throws the whole factory into an assembly line of chaotic proportions… knowwhatimean?  So… Bacon?  Get’s the intestinal juices a flown’!  Alcohol?  God’s Xanax.  Yoga?  Gives you time to obsess over “his” last text.  Deviate from this finely tuned system and you’ll wind up like me in June… DUSTY!  You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  So keep that IV you’ve been using for your daily dose of Starbucks right in place & remember that there is a solution for every problem.  Just ask Mitt Romney!   “But I’m broken out, blotchy, AND dehydrated!”  Yes, so clearly then alcohol is the culprit.  How dare you!  I am insulted at the accusation!  Well… alcohol may exacerbate some of the previously discussed ailments.  But just do what I do to avoid such hullabaloo - throw a primer on that greasy face ya silly bitch!  Instead of making things harder for yourself by avoiding the sweet, sweet nectar of the gods, a makeup primer will prevent clogging your pores with all that gunk you throw on to fix that… situation.   Hourglass’s ”Veil Mineral Primer” is very unlike other clear primers I have tried.  To start, it’s white… like moisturizer… ooooooh!  And with just half a pump (NOT THAT KIND) it moisturizes my combination skin but feels sheer and silky (what sexy verbage!).  After application it is instantly absorbed, and then I’m ready to get back to tricking people into thinking I’m really, really good-looking.

Hourglass Veil Mineral Primer, .33 oz, $18, Sephora.com.

What is happening to those with whom I associate, hm?  Am I that much of a Jewish nag that I have driven each of them to the bottle, now forcing them to detox?  Today marks another loss.  I received a text which read, “I’m cutting out alcohol.”  WHY?!  How are we supposed to tolerate “3 buttons undone” men without it?  There is no other way!

As I have told these dummies and will now share with you - cutting anything out of your daily regimen is just bad, bad, bad for business.  Throws the whole factory into an assembly line of chaotic proportions… knowwhatimean?  So… Bacon?  Get’s the intestinal juices a flown’!  Alcohol?  God’s Xanax.  Yoga?  Gives you time to obsess over “his” last text.  Deviate from this finely tuned system and you’ll wind up like me in June… DUSTY!  You know what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  So keep that IV you’ve been using for your daily dose of Starbucks right in place & remember that there is a solution for every problem.  Just ask Mitt Romney!  

“But I’m broken out, blotchy, AND dehydrated!”  Yes, so clearly then alcohol is the culprit.  How dare you!  I am insulted at the accusation!  Well… alcohol may exacerbate some of the previously discussed ailments.  But just do what I do to avoid such hullabaloo - throw a primer on that greasy face ya silly bitch!  Instead of making things harder for yourself by avoiding the sweet, sweet nectar of the gods, a makeup primer will prevent clogging your pores with all that gunk you throw on to fix that… situation.  

Hourglass’s ”Veil Mineral Primer” is very unlike other clear primers I have tried.  To start, it’s white… like moisturizer… ooooooh!  And with just half a pump (NOT THAT KIND) it moisturizes my combination skin but feels sheer and silky (what sexy verbage!).  After application it is instantly absorbed, and then I’m ready to get back to tricking people into thinking I’m really, really good-looking.

Tracy Reese Couture Brocade Frock; J. Crew Everly Suede Pumps in Rhubarb, $245, JCrew.com.  “He (President Barack Obama) reminds me that we are playing a long game here and that change is hard, and change is slow, and it never happens all at once.” -First Lady Michelle Obama (September 4th, 2012, The Democratic National Convention, Charlotte, North Carolina)

Tracy Reese Couture Brocade Frock; J. Crew Everly Suede Pumps in Rhubarb, $245, JCrew.com. 

“He (President Barack Obama) reminds me that we are playing a long game here and that change is hard, and change is slow, and it never happens all at once.”

-First Lady Michelle Obama

(September 4th, 2012, The Democratic National Convention, Charlotte, North Carolina)

Velvet Voyeur, Essie Nail Polish, $8, Nordstrom.com. “You have lovely hands.  Do you know that?”  ”Oh… wow, thank you!”  ”Yes, but insisting on wearing those reds and dark colors really makes you look old.” That ever so delicate hint transpired three months ago.  And so for the past ninety days I have blissfully sought lacquer fulfillment from the Fiji through Ballet Slipper section of my local Nail Factory (I must insist that any institution where they rush you through like goddamn cattle shall not be considered a salon).  But today, as I prepared for tomorrow’s highly anticipated Fall 2012 IFB Conference in SoHo, I stared at the pickins in utter color confusion.  Why had I been neglecting the hues that had for so long filled my heart with happiness that could only be measured on a Pantone color index? The answer?  Here’s a hint… when you touch it, it grows!  Yes!  A di - I mean, a man!  And now that this hand admirer is probably off shaking paws with another - certainly with far less kempt nail beds than my own, it was time to return to my faithful friends, the ones that have stood by me all these years — even through the Juicy Couture velour tracksuit wearin’ days. So today I took the formidable step that every woman must take after droppin’ the dead weight — doin’ you.  And holy nailgasm, when the first swipe of that Velour Voyeur was painted on, I nearly thumped right there with Joy workin’ her magic on ma feetsies.   And so Fashionigmas, if a man ever dictates how he would like you to look — what to wear, how to smell, style your hair etc. etc., it is your duty to remember that your relationship with what whatever that thing may be was born way before this sweet bottom came into your life.  And as sad as it may be, your relationship with that special something is likely to outlast your days of bed rockin’ with Mr. Dreamy Cheeks.  I said likely, not certainly… I welcome submissions if you want finite answers.

Velvet Voyeur, Essie Nail Polish, $8, Nordstrom.com.

“You have lovely hands.  Do you know that?”  ”Oh… wow, thank you!”  ”Yes, but insisting on wearing those reds and dark colors really makes you look old.”

That ever so delicate hint transpired three months ago.  And so for the past ninety days I have blissfully sought lacquer fulfillment from the Fiji through Ballet Slipper section of my local Nail Factory (I must insist that any institution where they rush you through like goddamn cattle shall not be considered a salon).  But today, as I prepared for tomorrow’s highly anticipated Fall 2012 IFB Conference in SoHo, I stared at the pickins in utter color confusion.  Why had I been neglecting the hues that had for so long filled my heart with happiness that could only be measured on a Pantone color index?

The answer?  Here’s a hint… when you touch it, it grows!  Yes!  A di - I mean, a man!  And now that this hand admirer is probably off shaking paws with another - certainly with far less kempt nail beds than my own, it was time to return to my faithful friends, the ones that have stood by me all these years — even through the Juicy Couture velour tracksuit wearin’ days.

So today I took the formidable step that every woman must take after droppin’ the dead weight — doin’ you.  And holy nailgasm, when the first swipe of that Velour Voyeur was painted on, I nearly thumped right there with Joy workin’ her magic on ma feetsies.  

And so Fashionigmas, if a man ever dictates how he would like you to look — what to wear, how to smell, style your hair etc. etc., it is your duty to remember that your relationship with what whatever that thing may be was born way before this sweet bottom came into your life.  And as sad as it may be, your relationship with that special something is likely to outlast your days of bed rockin’ with Mr. Dreamy Cheeks.  I said likely, not certainly… I welcome submissions if you want finite answers.

Prada Infusion d’Iris Eau de Parfum Spray, $90. “LISTEN!  You and I aren’t really ‘vibing.’  We tried the whole, ‘O-M-G do you know…’ ‘Jewish Geography’ game & it’s just not working.  Mind if we switch seats so I can talk to your friend?”  Never feel insulted by a guy who uses ‘vibing’ so casually.  Being Jewish and in medical school can only forgive so much. STILL, was it me?  Clearly it’s not my looks.  After all, I am HIGHLY attractive.  I am also fantastically comical, so it couldn’t have been my unmatched personality that failed to win him over… Did I smell? Here’s an anecdote for ya.  I was absolutely infatuated with my last boyfriend’s smell.  Not in the creepy, “Lemme sniff those sheets” kinda way, but in the “Who is that, and what are you wearing?!  Take a step closer my friend, let mama come in for a whiff” kinda way.  Not creepy AT ALL.  I used his shower gels, shampoos and nothin’!  Couldn’t conjure the magic! Little did I know that my prince was BATHING in cologne behind my back.  Masking his many spritz’ by the sound of his blowdryer.  HE WAS FOREIGN!  I accepted the beauty routine and so must you. The cologne happened to be the yin to my yang.  Quite literally.  The man was wearing the d’Homme version of Prada’s Infusion d’Iris - my trademark scent - you don’t have one?  I had unwittingly grown attracted to myself. Ain’t that fitting. After the creepy turn of events I’ve refrained from my usual “mist and step” routine.  And lemme tell ya, walking around without perfume on is absolutely mortifying.  It’s like tucking your skirt into your underpants - unnecessarily revealing.  Nobody wants to know what you really smell like!  Oh, well except for that girl in my sorority who said her boyfriend “adored” her “natural scent…”  That’s what happens when you go abroad south of the equator my friends.

Prada Infusion d’Iris Eau de Parfum Spray, $90.

“LISTEN!  You and I aren’t really ‘vibing.’  We tried the whole, ‘O-M-G do you know…’ ‘Jewish Geography’ game & it’s just not working.  Mind if we switch seats so I can talk to your friend?”  Never feel insulted by a guy who uses ‘vibing’ so casually.  Being Jewish and in medical school can only forgive so much.

STILL, was it me?  Clearly it’s not my looks.  After all, I am HIGHLY attractive.  I am also fantastically comical, so it couldn’t have been my unmatched personality that failed to win him over… Did I smell?

Here’s an anecdote for ya.  I was absolutely infatuated with my last boyfriend’s smell.  Not in the creepy, “Lemme sniff those sheets” kinda way, but in the “Who is that, and what are you wearing?!  Take a step closer my friend, let mama come in for a whiff” kinda way.  Not creepy AT ALL.  I used his shower gels, shampoos and nothin’!  Couldn’t conjure the magic! Little did I know that my prince was BATHING in cologne behind my back.  Masking his many spritz’ by the sound of his blowdryer.  HE WAS FOREIGN!  I accepted the beauty routine and so must you.

The cologne happened to be the yin to my yang.  Quite literally.  The man was wearing the d’Homme version of Prada’s Infusion d’Iris - my trademark scent - you don’t have one?  I had unwittingly grown attracted to myself. Ain’t that fitting.

After the creepy turn of events I’ve refrained from my usual “mist and step” routine.  And lemme tell ya, walking around without perfume on is absolutely mortifying.  It’s like tucking your skirt into your underpants - unnecessarily revealing.  Nobody wants to know what you really smell like!  Oh, well except for that girl in my sorority who said her boyfriend “adored” her “natural scent…”  That’s what happens when you go abroad south of the equator my friends.

“Undecided” Velvet Slipper, $400, StubbsAndWootton.com. As a product of an East Coast Liberal Arts College, it is fitting that all things political evoke  a nostalgia for the New England uniform.  Think khakis, plaids, varying shades of pastels and an astonishing assortment of loafers.  So in attempt to prepare for the impending election, I refrain from brushing up on current events and instead aim to beef up the Sloan Sabbith section of my closet. Regardless that Brooks Brothers stands as both the bane and moment of shining glory in my romantic existence, when I spotted a “SALE” sign in the window this past weekend, I thought I’d peruse around the ‘ole haberdashery & make Will McAvoy proud.  And WAH WAH WEE WAH!  ”Well now I know where all da men at!” squealed ma Bestie as she threw me her best EBR (Eyebrow Raise).   Ya know that SATC episode (I’M ABBREVING!) where Carrie attempts to teach a “FILL YOUR VOID WITH A MAN” class at The Learning Annex (PUN INTENDED)?  ”Have you tried Sports Bars?”  Carrie, Carrie, Carrie, BB is where they’re all hiding!  There were father son duos hittin’ the racks that would throw a wrench in the well laid plans of even the most dedicated of Gold Diggers with Daddy issues. Unfortunately, the women’s section at this particular Brooks Brother gave me but a single sweater-set to choose from.  I hadn’t really thought about taking up with a man from Connecticut again so I left empty handed.  Luckily both Kenneth Cole & Ann Taylor had some fantastic pants and blazers that will make you wanna debate abortion with me at any ‘ole hour of the day!  But alas, no smart footwear to be found!   So what says “I’m Pro-Israel and Al Gore did not invent Global Warming?”  Enter Stubbs & Wootton.  Thier timely “Undecided” slippers just scream, “Single Issue Politics!”  Or as the know-it-all in Private Equity I once dated called it, “Libertarianism.”  A shining example of how overrated an Ivy League education really is.  

“Undecided” Velvet Slipper, $400, StubbsAndWootton.com.

As a product of an East Coast Liberal Arts College, it is fitting that all things political evoke  a nostalgia for the New England uniform.  Think khakis, plaids, varying shades of pastels and an astonishing assortment of loafers.  So in attempt to prepare for the impending election, I refrain from brushing up on current events and instead aim to beef up the Sloan Sabbith section of my closet.

Regardless that Brooks Brothers stands as both the bane and moment of shining glory in my romantic existence, when I spotted a “SALE” sign in the window this past weekend, I thought I’d peruse around the ‘ole haberdashery & make Will McAvoy proud.  And WAH WAH WEE WAH!  ”Well now I know where all da men at!” squealed ma Bestie as she threw me her best EBR (Eyebrow Raise).  

Ya know that SATC episode (I’M ABBREVING!) where Carrie attempts to teach a “FILL YOUR VOID WITH A MAN” class at The Learning Annex (PUN INTENDED)?  ”Have you tried Sports Bars?”  Carrie, Carrie, Carrie, BB is where they’re all hiding!  There were father son duos hittin’ the racks that would throw a wrench in the well laid plans of even the most dedicated of Gold Diggers with Daddy issues.

Unfortunately, the women’s section at this particular Brooks Brother gave me but a single sweater-set to choose from.  I hadn’t really thought about taking up with a man from Connecticut again so I left empty handed.  Luckily both Kenneth Cole & Ann Taylor had some fantastic pants and blazers that will make you wanna debate abortion with me at any ‘ole hour of the day!  But alas, no smart footwear to be found!  

So what says “I’m Pro-Israel and Al Gore did not invent Global Warming?”  Enter Stubbs & Wootton.  Thier timely “Undecided” slippers just scream, “Single Issue Politics!”  Or as the know-it-all in Private Equity I once dated called it, “Libertarianism.”  A shining example of how overrated an Ivy League education really is.  

Coach Legacy Leather Clutch in Emerald, $158, Coach.com. Referring to the ‘Mos that tell you to cut back on the cookies as “My Gays,” ‘aint cute.   Oh really?  You spent your Saturday night “Crusin’ for Straighties with MY GAYS!”  Referring to a group of individuals as collectables isn’t offensive AT ALL.  ”Grabbing dinner with my GOYS!”  See what I’m sayin’?!  When I hear you spew such “I’m a Fag-Hag!” nonsense, those same feelin’s I get when I watch my pirated copy of “The Odd Life of Timothy Green” comes a creepin’.  TIMOTHY DIES?!  And THIS GURL has lived all 25 years without a single soul caring that she’s a FRICKIN’ MO-RON?!  SADS!!! So for those of you not accessorizing your bar crawls with the Gays of your life, here’s a fantastic Coach clutch from the vintage “Legacy Collection” to carry your “Her Pleasure” condoms in.  My last boyfriend was all about the “Her Pleasure” - was it supposed to be a gesture?

Coach Legacy Leather Clutch in Emerald, $158, Coach.com.

Referring to the ‘Mos that tell you to cut back on the cookies as “My Gays,” ‘aint cute.   Oh really?  You spent your Saturday night “Crusin’ for Straighties with MY GAYS!”  Referring to a group of individuals as collectables isn’t offensive AT ALL.  ”Grabbing dinner with my GOYS!”  See what I’m sayin’?!  When I hear you spew such “I’m a Fag-Hag!” nonsense, those same feelin’s I get when I watch my pirated copy of “The Odd Life of Timothy Green” comes a creepin’.  TIMOTHY DIES?!  And THIS GURL has lived all 25 years without a single soul caring that she’s a FRICKIN’ MO-RON?!  SADS!!!

So for those of you not accessorizing your bar crawls with the Gays of your life, here’s a fantastic Coach clutch from the vintage “Legacy Collection” to carry your “Her Pleasure” condoms in.  My last boyfriend was all about the “Her Pleasure” - was it supposed to be a gesture?