Good Hair, Kim Luck

This is my 100th blog post.

2011-04-13T11:05:00.000-07:00

It's a picture of a dress. But it is a really good dress, at least.

Elie Saab

Let's play the "What I'd Wear Were I Getting Married Tomorrow" game.

2011-04-05T11:01:00.000-07:00

I'm not, but I'd wear this.

Michelle Trachtenberg in Marchesa at the School of American Ballet's Winter Ball held in NYC in March.

I can't possibly be the only person spending all my free time watching the Les Miserables 25th Anniversary Concert on PBS, can I?

2011-03-16T16:45:00.000-07:00

Just checking.

This may be the nerdiest thing I love.

A JoBro plays Marius ... yeah.

Enjolras is hotter than the sun, per usual/probable requirement.

Where's the blood of virgins or whatever it is I need to bathe in to wake up looking like this tomorrow?

2011-02-20T20:04:00.000-08:00

I could maybe settle for the outfit, at least.

Princess hair!

2011-02-12T14:19:00.000-08:00

I had my hair colored this afternoon - for the first time since moving back to New York, which meant new salon.

Always terrifying. Who knows what you could end up with, right?

But, I was more confident than I have been going into previous salon first-times, as I was to see my roommate's colorist. My roommate has glorious red locks (though we tend to call them vermillion, as why not) that are as long and thick as mine, and I figure anyone who can turn someone with 30 pounds of hair into a ginge without making her look ridiculous must know what she's doing.

I was not looking to dye my hair red, however (oh man would my skin tone never work with that); I was simply trying, as ever, to land on that perfect brunette shade that has eluded me, well, always.

And so I plopped down into the chair, tossed my fading caramel-ish with glaring blonde patches hair around, and informed my new stylist that I wanted to be: "Shiny, shiny brunette. Dark, but not goth! Once I dyed my hair black by accident, it was bad. Warm, but not honey. Everyone always makes me honey. Not blondish-brown, rich brown. Chestnut, I suppose. No red, though. Um, kind of like ..."

As I tried to come up with a celebrity example of what I wanted, the genius in the mirror behind me opened a magazine and became my instant best friend with the words: "Like her."

EXACTLY!

And then? She did it.

I am now Kate's hair twin, and I am so happy.

(Want to take bets on how long before the fading begins?)

Yes.

2011-01-25T16:17:00.000-08:00

Christian Dior Spring/Summer 2011 Haute Couture by John Galliano

It's 2011 and I live in New York!

2011-01-18T15:32:00.000-08:00

Also, I have this blog that I apparently never update.

I'm gainfully employed once again, and oh man do I work a lot of hours. Like a TON of a lot. This is interfering a little with my plan to go to ballet classes at the NYSC (which actually has nothing to do with seeing Black Swan, although who will believe that at this point, so, fine, it's because of Black Swan, I don't care) but at the same time it's like don't bite the hand that feeds your Botkier addiction, so, I guess that's all there is to say about that.

It's been just about four months of my Living in New York: Round Two - I've been paying rent for longer than that, but I spent August on Cape Cod and the first half of September in Greece (#whitegirlproblems) - and I feel like I never left. I've started considering my apartment (no living room) (or kitchen, really) totally spacious, I've started eating bagels (the horror) with olive cream cheese (Oh. My. God.) pretty much every Saturday, and I have a regular coffee cart guy who badmouths Bloomberg and checks up on the federal holiday schedule with me every morning. My sideeye is scathing and it appears I never lost that natural instinct to jab my knuckles into a stranger's back should he/she decide to lean up against the subway pole I'm clinging to.

My life is SO MUCH BETTER NOW.

Even with all the working.

I'm also pretty excited for 2011. One, because I prefer odd numbers to even ones, and two, because "2011" just sounds so awesomely like some date that's supposed to be waaaaaay in the future but instead it's here, now, and that's neat as opposed to terrifying for whatever reason.

I even made resolutions (hung them on my mirror and everything) for the first time ... ever, possibly:

1.) Drink more water. (Because vodka isn't the same and neither is coffee.)

2.) Learn Italian. (Because Italy is on the agenda for September!)

3.) Read Dostoevksy. (Because I'm not a legit literary snob yet. Anyone think it should be something OTHER than Crime and Punishment?)

4.) Donate 100 things each season. (Inspired by my friend Danne's blog post.)

5.) Hike an active volcano. (I hiked my first volcano in Santorini last fall, and while it was neat, I was hoping for something a bit more ... Mordor.)

I think they're all perfectly cliche, well-rounded and doable.

I've also started my own Lipstick of the Month club, to keep myself amused while I'm working 70 hours/week and to (maybe ... probably not) expose me to lip colors other than reds. January's selection is NARS "Heat Wave", which is a very bright orange-red, and while I am completely enamored of it and used to wearing bright lip colors, it is starting to feel a little strange wearing it every day no matter how I'm dressed/what I'm doing. This of course only fuels the challenge and makes me look forward to the month I talk myself into choosing neon pink or wearing that ridiculous (and amazing) cool-tone pink Lady Gaga stuff to the office.

2011! In New York! Thank god.

I CANNOT believe

2010-12-22T19:34:00.000-08:00

... that I forgot to put pearl-dusted truffles on my Christmas list.

This season crept up on me far too quickly, obviously.

I'm melting.

2010-12-11T11:47:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things about living in New York is that heat and hot water are included as a part of the rent in most places.

I fully understand that, considering the rent charged for the shoeboxes we cram ourselves into, this is really probably not a deal, but oh man does it ever feel like one. I remember having to wrap myself up like a burrito in a snowsuit and blankets every night when I lived in a giant house in Boston and still being horrified by the heat bill every month from November through March. It was not fun.

In my current place, they don't skimp on the services, either. Which is great as far as showering is concerned. I've not suffered a cold one in the almost 4 months I've lived here.

However. It is so hot in here I cannot deal. It has been freezing in New York the past week (admittedly, today it is quite nice, in the 40s I think) and yet I've pretty much been removing my pants immediately upon walking into my apartment. All of our windows are wide open and I have my duvet folded down at the end of my bed and am sleeping with a sheet only. I often wake up drenched in sweat.

It is December and I live in a drafty pre-war walkup and I am waking up drenched in sweat and can't wear pants.

I also just had to add ice to my gingerbread coffee.

I know. #whitegirlproblems

Read this blog.

2010-12-05T13:24:00.000-08:00

Hyperbole and a Half.

Judging by the number of comments Allie's posts get, I assume most people already read it. But if you don't, get on that.

It makes me laugh like a lunatic, often to the point of tears. It is awesome.

I do not understand.

2010-11-28T15:19:00.000-08:00

I was just reading an article about how Justin Timberlake is apparently planning some hardcore campaign for a Best Supporting Actor nomination for his role in The Social Network.

I've never been one to watch or put much stock in the Academy Awards because I feel like the Academy generally awards movies based upon various factors that rarely have much to do with performances at all and most of the viewing public are sheep who eat hype up anyway (because otherwise, I refuse to understand how The Road went entirely unacknowledged last year, and Viggo Mortensen has never won anything like ever, or how Peacock went straight to DVD when Cillian Murphy gave the best performance I've seen all year).

But, seriously? This one (if Timberlake gets it) I just will not be able to comprehend. I've already rolled my eyes at a few people who gushed in my presence over how great his performance was. Sorry, but I feel like there's some Kool-Aid out there that you all are gulping down. He was fine in the movie. There was nothing wrong with his performance, but it was not some award-deserving breakthrough. It wasn't anything special, and it wasn't like he delivered it in some exceptionally nuanced way that made the part greater than it was designed to be. He just didn't suck, and simply doing better than expected because you're an ex-boybander is not cause to be recognized for giving one of the best performances of the year, in my opinion.

Also, give me a break. When it came to that movie, here you go:

Jesse Eisenberg>Armie Hammer>Andrew Garfield>Justin Timberlake. (And no one has even tossed Hammer's name out there.)

But I mean, this is all irrelevant because my favorite movie of the year is The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader and it hasn't even come out yet, so, look who you're dealing with.

I'm a much better literary snob than I am film snob.

And now, on things I don't need but WANT SO BAD.

2010-11-23T19:47:00.000-08:00

Holy crap I want this. Really badly, for some reason. I obviously don't need it, but it's an all-consuming desire. It's so pretty.

So do I want (need) it in navy or neutral?

I was thinking I should start updating my blog again ...

2010-11-22T22:35:00.000-08:00

... seeing as I moved to New York and have been having all kinds of top-notch incidents of Kim Luck and I dyed my hair dark brunette, etc.

BUT THEN, I decided to start watching Friday Night Lights (the TV show, not the movie, which is phenomenal in its own right, however, and one of the nine or so DVDs I actually own) on Netflix streaming instead, so I'm a little busy crying and flailing all the time and also holy god, Taylor Kitsch, seriously.

So good.

Good Hair Thursday! (Not mine)

2010-11-11T19:32:00.000-08:00

Probably unsurprisingly, I'm a Lauren Conrad fan. I haven't read any of her books and as of yet haven't been inspired to purchase any of her designs, but I adore her personal style and totally quit watching The Hills when she left. Also, as the Fug Girls noted, she doesn't seem like a complete moron and/or huge bitch, which is nice.

The Fug Girls put the following look to a Fug-or-Fab vote this week:

I think it's firmly in Fab territory, but despite the fact that the dress itself is very pretty and a lovely shade of blue (I love blue), I think I was sold 80% by the hair. How great is her hair here? It's kind of casually glamorous, and I like the darker shade on her as well. Her makeup is also flawless. I've been doing my eyes that way pretty much exclusively since late September, and it's so easy and always looks both pretty and appropriate for any occasion.

Unpopular opinion?

2010-11-01T11:04:00.000-07:00

I don't really understand why the Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte is such a thing now.

I mean, it's good and all, but Starbucks is not the only shop to offer one, and in my opinion, they don't even do it best (I'll say it: I even prefer DD's version). But it makes EVERYONE ELSE'S Top 10 Things of Fall or Whatever lists. Really. How many times in the past month have you read something along the lines of "Oh, I loooooooove fall (or, better yet, "autumn")! Boots! Jackets! Crunchy leaves! Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Lattes!" on some chick's blog?

Whatever though. To each her own. But if I'm loading something as blissfully low-calorie as coffee up with sugar and fat, you better believe it's going to be the STARBUCKS PEPPERMINT MOCHA. Because THAT is a concoction worth flailing over.

(I also really like the red cups during the winter holidays. Maybe I'd be more quick to board the Pumpkin Spice Latte bandwagon if Starbucks did foliage-patterned cups for fall or something.)

I've got plans for you, NYC.

2010-10-27T12:28:00.000-07:00

Attention New York-based darlings:

Come see my roommate's play! There's booze, and if you come Friday, you'll get the chance to see yours truly unchaperoned in the wild (I'm just going to go ahead and assume that's a selling point and not a deterrent).

Bohemian Archaeology Productions

presents:

BOO(zy)

An Evening of Spirits and Storytelling

directed by JORDANA KRITZER

Featuring works by Chicago playwrights:

KIM MORRIS, MARGOT BORDELON, BOBBY BIEDRZYCKI, MOLLY EACH and DOUG WHIPPO

TWO NIGHTS ONLY!

OCTOBER 28 & 29

9PM

THE DR2 THEATRE

Five of Chicago’s most twisted and original writers join five of New York’s most talented actors for two nights of Halloween tales. From getting freaked out to getting their freak on these storytellers tell twisted tales to get you in the Hallows’ Eve mood. These stories are accompanied by a live musical soundscape by Ryan Blotnick and are paired with a boozy drink, one that best embodies the theme of each story.

On Halloween night, a young hipster gets freaky with a hot DJ and wonders what happens when the costumes come off (Blood-Orange Martini); a homeless man jams to ‘80s rock with a broomstick (Jack-O-Lantern 'n Coke); a backpacker finds herself surrounded by freaks in the Red Light District of Amsterdam (Green-Eyed Schnapps Monster); and a bike racer dons her superhero cape and rides for her life (Freaky-Gin Fizz).

Location:Daryl Roth Theatre's DR2

101 East 15^th Street (Union Square East & 15th St)

Halloween cocktails ($4-$8) and a variety of specialty beers ($4-$6) will be available for purchase in the lobby before the show and during intermission. Drinks will be allowed (and encouraged!) in the theater.

To buy tickets, go to:

https://www.smarttix.com/show.aspx?EID=&showCode=BOO18&BundleCode=&GUID=14375435-1f6b-4f9f-bee5-3205d85ae74b

For more info, please visit:

www.bohemianarchaeology.org

Starring: Stephanie Bratnick*, James Ryan Caldwell*, Lena Hart*, Nathan Kaufman*, and Kelly Warne*

Music by: Ryan Blotnick
Assistant Director: Emily Madison

* Actors appearing courtesy of Actors Equity Association

I'd like to put in a request to look like Marion Cotillard in my next life.

2010-10-24T11:29:00.000-07:00

Lately I've been staying up until 3:30-4 a.m.

2010-10-24T10:54:00.000-07:00

I really need to break this habit, although it has opened my eyes to some fantastic corners of the Internet.

Last night I read this for hours: Reasoning With Vampires.

Hilarious.

Can you have a style icon who is a decade (um, a decade-plus) your junior?

2010-10-19T16:10:00.000-07:00

Because I was thinking today about how much I love Dakota Fanning, and everything she's wearing ever. (This pic's from one of the summer issues of Marie Claire).

This needs to go on sale immediately, please and thank you.

2010-10-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

Hello, dress I need. $300 is a bit much though, even for silk and horsies. But this thing is going to stalk me in my dreams.
(Anthropologie)

This actually totally works for me. At least in photos.

2010-10-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

Katie Holmes as Jackie O.

What I wish I was wearing today.

2010-10-15T09:51:00.000-07:00

Here at Unabashedly Prep So cute. I love that she's wearing gold evening shoes.

This blows my mind every time.

2010-10-13T20:17:00.000-07:00

I just had a 30-minute argument with some New Yorkers about the existence of candlepin bowling (they said no, I said DUH) before I remembered this has happened to me before, and that candlepin bowling is apparently not something everyone in America has.

STILL WEIRD.

See ya in October.

2010-09-05T05:58:00.001-07:00

Going to Greece now. Your jealousy is normal. Bye.

DRESSES POST.

2010-09-02T16:43:00.000-07:00

Per my usual where awards shows are concerned, I did not watch the Emmy Awards, but I did scour the Internet for red carpet pics over my morning coffee the next day. As a whole, my feelings primarily ranged from "meh" to "GROSSSSS," but there were a few notably excellent exceptions.

RUNAWAY FAVORITE

Jayma Mays from Glee (but more importantly to me, she was in Red Eye, a kind of crappy but totally entertaining thriller starring Cillian Murphy) in Burberry. This entire look is flawless. The navy, the gold, her skin, her hair - I love it all. Burberry captured my heart around Spring 2009 and doesn't seem to be giving it back any time soon, which is totally fine by me if everything keeps looking this great.

SECOND PLACE AND TOTALLY AMAZING

Claire Danes in Armani Privé. Godddddddd this is glorious. I loved all the sequins that popped up on this carpet, but this one was the best by a longshot. I also really like her super-blonde hair.

MORE SPARKLY

This is Heather Morris from Glee. I have no idea what she is like on the show, but I thought she was Christina Applegate for a minute in this photo (compliment!) and I am in love with her entire look. I adore gold dresses in general but am incredibly picky about them (they can so easily look trashy) and I would wear this to anything. A funeral. Anything. She looks amazing. The dress is by Ina Soltani.

HONORABLE MENTION, MOSTLY FOR BEING THE PRETTIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD

Here's Nina Dobrev from the Vampire Diaries. I love Nina and I love her show and I fairly like this dress quite a lot, although it's variable depending on angles and lighting. It's by Zuhair Murad, designs of which my opinions generally tend to be split between appreciating the impeccable construction and being perplexed by the busyness of. Basically, though, Nina is so pretty it hurts, so here's a photo of her. Way to be pretty! (Also, let's all take a moment to imagine what it would feel like to be that perfectly skinny. Jealous? Me?)

PAM

Kristin Bauer van Straten as Pam is easily one of the best things about the already-amazing True Blood, and I would probably cut someone to have the last name Bauer van Straten, so clearly I assume we would get along famously. That said, I am torn here. I don't like her makeup at all, but her hair is lovely, and this dress seems at once delicate, pretty and like it wouldn't be out of place in a brothel. Also I can't find the designer. Anyone?

CURIOUS

Speaking of True Blood, here's Sookie herself. Anna Paquin wears Alexander McQueen all the time. She loves McQueen, and so do I, and so do you, but this one is a bit bewildering. Which, I guess, is kind of the thing with McQueen, so maybe there's really nothing to see here at all. Anyway, though, I adore that gold ... stuff ... that looks vaguely vaguely ... scaly, vaguely ancient Roman or maybe I'm going for Egyptian, and vaguely beautiful. Her hair and makeup are great. But the rest ... I just don't know? I think I get where it's going, but I don't like the waist, and I don't like the way it gathers like a tragic accident at her left knee there. I can't form an overall opinion. Too hard.

Oh, and I felt no descernible anything for January Jones' dress, which seems to be coaxing the most feelings out of the masses. I didn't like it. I didn't hate it either. And I don't quite get why it's causing so much chatter.

Might as well just run with this freakish thing I've got for men holding babies this week.

2010-08-26T16:02:00.000-07:00

Speaking of beautiful Inception cast members and their adorable spawn causing all sorts ovarian riots inside me, here's Cillian Murphy, a man I do not know at all and yet basically adore everything about, with his tiny blond child. Who, it would appear, is the most perfect-looking child in the world and managed to inherit his dad's eyes and lips. Congrats, baby, I believe that's what they refer to as winning the genetic lottery!

Also of sexy note: His (Cillian's, not baby's) wedding ring. It's so hot when men wear their wedding rings, and I don't mean that in some creepy homewrecker way. I just hate that they're less frequent in this day and age.

Also: What the hell is wrong with me this week? Babies and wedding rings? Goddddd.

July, She Will Fly, And Give No Warning To Her Flight

2010-08-24T20:12:00.001-07:00

It's cold out. You know what I mean. Not really cold, but too cold for August.

Too cold for me to slip down to the beach while I'm supposed to be sleeping to swim at midnight in water as dark as the sky.

Summer's fading. Already. It's always already, and I always panic. I hate when it ends and I refuse to sweep up all the sand and I catch colds wearing sundresses into October.

So this fall is the one I've been waiting for, and summer sucks in New York City anyway.

Doesn't change anything.

Still clinging. Still panicking. Already. I hate the fall.

Something's going on with my ovaries.

2010-08-22T16:47:00.000-07:00

This is Tom Hardy, the world's new boyfriend following his breakout turn in Inception.

He's actually already quite established, and pretty much phenomenal at the whole acting thing - check out Bronson (in which he gets plenty naked) and Wuthering Heights (the 2009 Masterpiece Theatre version, which takes some pretty interesting liberties from the book - which is my favorite book of all time - and in which he delivers the best Heathcliff performance to date, according to me) both of which are streaming on Netflix, if you're interested.

Some things about me:

1.) I don't particularly care for tattoos.

2.) I don't particularly care for babies.

3.) I know there are really screwy British teeth behind those unbelievable lips, and I don't particularly care for really screwy British teeth.

And yet ... asdfjkl;;lkjfdsaasdfjkl;mmmmmpphhhhhhhhh.

God, being a girl is predictable.

(Also, that baby is really cute, for a baby.)

It's been a while since I actually SQUEEE!!!'d, so, I thought I would document it.

2010-08-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

This is Dianna Agron. I don't know anything about her except that she is on that awful television program Glee (Guys, I gave it two chances and I just can't offer a third. It's insufferable.) and she may or may not be dating Sebastian Stan, an actor possessing one of the most incredible faces in existance (I like my men simultaneously shockingly beautiful and a little fuckety-looking, okay?), as well as my heart.

But anyway, Dianna is clearly very pretty, and we appear to have the same hair, and here she is at some awards thing apparently sponsored by diets and teeth whitening agents, both of which I obviously endorse, wearing the cutest dress I have seen in months. It's Carolina Herrera and I WANT IT.

Alas, while strapless is usually a style that works for me, I'm thinking my mighty fine uptown rack might be a bit too substantial for this dainty piece of wearable art, so I'll just continue to lust rather than shop.

Which is a good thing, because I am edging dangerously close to poor territory, and that's not a region I do well in.

Something that has happened to FOUR of my friends in the past month.

2010-08-16T16:38:00.000-07:00

Seriously, world. The following is not complicated:

If you make plans to attend a concert/show/event of any kind, someone else purchases your ticket for you for whatever reason (seats together, credit card purchase, etc), and then you decide you don't want to/can't afford to go anymore?

You are still responsible for the cost of the ticket.

I repeat: You. Are still responsible for the cost of the ticket.

That means if you have to sell it to get the money back because it turns out you can't afford it, you sell it.

If you decide you have something better to do, you take the monetary loss.

Your (should-be former) friend is not responsible for unloading the ticket/covering your cost.

File under: Things I Can't Believe Aren't Common Knowledge; Why Are People Such Trash; This Is Why I Am So Selective About My Friends.

Ew.

Pearl boots? Why not?

2010-08-13T12:41:00.000-07:00

By Chanel, via shoelust.

Crying out for attention.

2010-08-08T20:31:00.000-07:00

Hi guys, hi.

I'm still alive. Don't forget about me. Have a plethora of posts in the queue.

In Good Hair news, I don't have really it, right now. I'm mid-move, stressed, and spending all my free time swimming (so much more fun than running, and so much more economical than shopping!). Tip for my fellow ocean-swimmers? Put conditioner in before you go to the beach. Really. Just throw some in and forget about it. It significantly decreases the percentage by which hair turns to bleached straw in August on the Cape.

In Kim Luck news ... um, hang on. What did I do with the Hendricks?

What are you up to? Hair product recs? Exciting purchases? What did you think of Inception? Please. Entertain me ;)

Pretty sure this is just one of the stages a person goes through before moving to New York for the second time?

2010-07-28T11:41:00.001-07:00

In the midst of apartment hunting hell.

(Which reminds me, I still need to finish Parts 2 and 3 of my tale, as I'm now living Part 5 or so, though things are becoming less hilarious and more horrendous.)

Have not packed anything.

(Which reminds me, I am so very untalented when it comes to packing. You know that one box, the one that's for the leftover stuff that didn't make it into the appropriate boxes? The box that has an extra toothbrush and a half-used candle and a single sock and two books and a slotted spoon in it? That's pretty much all my boxes.)

Have not pro/con-listed movers v. making my friends hate me.

(Which reminds me, moving furniture in the summer is death. And I have no arm muscles. None. Not one. It's a wonder I can even lift a purse.)

Have not sought employment since June (when 8 resume-bombings resulted in ... nothing).

(Which reminds me, what did my parents do with my imaginary trust fund again? I could really use it.)

Am pretty sure I can't take all my shoes with me.

(Which reminds me, I didn't need to buy those Repetto flats yesterday, like, at all.)

Considering just continuing to sit around consuming mass quantities of iced coffee and vodka indefinitely.

(Which reminds me, I've only got ONE Cillian Murphy movie left to watch. THEN WHAT?!)

I have way too much on my mind.

Time to laser off my collegiate oopsy daisy?

2010-07-26T09:42:00.000-07:00

This weekend I remembered that I have a tattoo and proceeded to run through an array of unpleasant emotions about it.

I still have issues about the tiny scars on my ears from my ill-advised second piercings, too.

Monday, I'm In Love With: My Summer Birthday

2010-07-19T18:58:00.000-07:00

I celebrated my 28th birthday this weekend.

28. 2-8. 28! The first of my Scary Ages. Whoa.

It's weird to see it written out. Honestly, and I'm sure someone reading somewhere will take offense be it in the comments or in his/her (probably a her) head, it looks damn old. That is just so far from 23, which is the last time I decided my age looked old. Hence, I am like one foot in the grave. 28. I should totally have a kindergartener and a husband and a Range Rover and a 401K and be like 4 inches taller or something.

Oh well.

Honestly, Scary Age #1 has arrived with only minimal panic and distress at potential (fine, fine, clear and present but very fine) crow's feet and smile lines.

It could have something to do with the fact that I've been 28 for 7 months already, I suppose, so I've had some time to adjust.

Full disclosure: My birthday is July 17. Because I said so.

I was born on December 17, which is maybe the dumbest birth date in the history of the universe, at least the universe according to me. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

As supporting evidence, here is a list of 7 things I hate and how they relate to December 17 as a birth date:

1. Snow, and its abundance in my life around December 17 from 1987 or so until I finally gave up altogether on attempting to have birthday parties as a child due to the fact that people are afraid to drive in it.

2. Christmas, and its proximity to December 17, resulting in the real reason no one could ever come to my birthday parties as a child. Half blamed the snow from the car on the way northward into more snow for family Christmas vacations. Liars. Dumb, skiing liars. The other half simply begged off due to their tropical Christmas vacations, which was only slightly less offensive. Dumb, honest Christmastime beachgoers.

3. Family ski trips as a birthday gift. I hate skiing. No matter how many times you bring me skiing against my will, and then yell at me for not acting grateful enough about freezing to death on a chair lift before sliding down a mountain of snow strapped to cumbersome sticks, you will never convince me that I like it or that you brought me there for me.

4. Christmas decorations as birthday decorations. Christmas decorations are tacky and horrible and I like hydrangeas better than poinsettias, okay? I don't care if they're not in season in winter, IT IS MY BIRTHDAY FIND SOME. No? Oh, poinsettias then.

5. Christmas cakes as birthday cakes. Are you fucking kidding me? Even at 5 I knew the snowman cupcakes were because they were so you could bring leftovers to the neighbors' open house.

6. Winter clothes. Winter clothes are not cute, sorry. There is nothing exciting about a sweater. Exactly 2% of the population looks as super in jeans as every woman on the planet likes to claim all women do here in our new Jezebellian society where makeup and high heels are maligned as evil tools of the Patriarchy. I do not want to wear a coat to my birthday party, I WANT TO WEAR A BIKINI.

7. "Joint Christmas/birthday gifts." Seriously. Who do you think you're fooling? Cheap bastards. And don't give me the "I got you ONE really good thing as a combination" line. No, you didn't. (*What is exceptionally funny about this, is I have not, since very early childhood, given a fuck about Christmas gifts. I don't exchange with my friends, and my family draws one name for Secret Santa and then does a family charitable gift. Hence, I only ever wanted one gift during the season - the one in honor of ME, not Hallmark Jesus! And yet everyone always felt the need to share with me that my birthday gift was also a Christmas gift.)

I can clearly remember exactly one great birthday that I celebrated on December 17. It was the year I turned 21, and I was studying abroad in London. Obviously, it was the week before Christmas, and also the week before almost everyone was heading back to the States for the holidays, and so I assumed the day would pass with its usual (read: no) fanfare.

So I was pleasantly surprised when my friends informed me that a group of them had gotten a dinner reservation for us to celebrate.

When I walked up to my dorm room floor to get changed and found both the door and interior of my room decorated and full of champagne and beer and flowers and chocolate and presents? I cried.

Yes, I cried. For like, hours. It was completely humiliating to me and thoroughly perplexing to my friends, and totally awesome. I also ended up taking all these crazy shots with Goldschlager in them and some really weird/fun stuff went down with some English randos, but that's neither here nor there.

So, yes. I have always hated my birthday except for that one time. Which sucked exceptionally because I think birthdays are very much a Big Deal, and have kind of a thing about making sure people really enjoy them.

It took me 27 years to figure it out, but I finally decided last year that I was going to have to do something about my own.

When December 17, 2008 rolled around, I ordered everyone to refrain from acknowledging it.

"I'm moving my birthday," I announced. "To July."

This was met with rather hilarious resistance, quite tellingly primarily by my handful of female friends who have already reached and/or surpassed the l'il milestone of 30.

"You can't just move your birthday," The 30s protested vehemently. "It doesn't work like that!"

"Why?" I asked them, to some sputtering, and finally:

"Well, you have to round up, then!"

I stared. "It's not about changing my age," I explained. "It's just about changing my birthday."

"Fine! But you have to round up!" They insisted.

"I am not rounding up," I replied. "That is ridiculous. I am celebrating the year I am turning that year!"

"But it's not fairrrrr! You will be saying you are turning 27 when you are already 27 and a half*!" This was very upsetting to The 30s.

"Nooooo," I informed them. "Should anyone ask my age at any given point, I will tell them how old I am. I will just not be choosing to throw a party about it until July!"

This went on like this for some time, until The 30s finally relented, with a host of restrictions, including that they all intended to send me messages on December 17 mocking my latest old age and insisting on announcing throughout my July birthday parties what a fraud they were.

"Go for it," I consented. "And I will continue to refuse to acknowledge your celebrations of the 'Whatever-Anniversary-of-Your-29th-Birthday', because that is dumb."

I won.

I celebrated 27 with my friends on a beach, drinking blueberry vodka and swapping my bathing suit for a sundress to go out that night. It did not snow, my cupcakes were not holiday-themed and no one gave me a gift with a hasty explanation of how it covered Christmas as well**. It was perfect.

I celebrated 28 with a Red Sox game (they don't have those in December, you know) and an outdoor Cake concert, day drinking in Boston and a scary movie in air conditioning when it actually became too hot to hang out outside for a little while. It was also perfect.

Happy birthday to me :)

* Many people have asked me why I chose July 17 as opposed to June 17, which would be my half-birthday and seemingly comfort them somehow about this absurd and outlandish action of mine. The reason is that my purpose was to have a summer birthday, and in New England, June is a crapshoot. Sometimes it's one of the most beautiful summer months. Other times it is leftover Mud Season, or just cold. July is always safe.

** Interestingly enough, I still don't really receive birthday gifts. When December 17 rolls around now, people nudge me and wink about how they don't have to get me anything until July, because that's when my birthday is now. But when July 17 rolls around, they remind me that it is in fact not really my birthday, and so I will have to wait until December 17 for my present. Step and repeat. I don't mind so much. Can't win 'em all, and I prefer to buy my own presents anyway, if that isn't apparent.

Presenting, Round 1 of Apartment Search 2010 in Three Parts. Part 1: A History Lesson

2010-07-13T14:56:00.000-07:00

When I moved to New York in the summer of 2004, I played the most minimal of roles during my apartment hunt.

See, it was kind of only my second Major Life Decision (the first being choosing which among my accepted colleges I would attend, which I settled with a coin toss, people) and at 22 I was in full comprehension of the fact that my Kim Luck was 97% certain to nullify any "plans" I attempted to make and so I was pretty much already resigned to being more of a reactive personality when it came to existing.

My roommate and best friend, on the other hand, is the most proactive person I have ever met. There was a time when I would occasionally begrudge her for seemingly always getting everything she wanted, until I wised up to the fact that she worked her ass off every day to do so.

And so, basically, I followed her lead when we decided that our post-collegiate plan was "MOVE TO NEW YORK. DON'T DIE." She scribbled a realtor's name on a piece of notebook paper and told me not to forget my checkbook, and I listened.

We went down in July. It was hot and it smelled like trash and the air conditioners dripped on you from above quite jarringly until you got used to it.

Neither of us had ever visited the city as anything more than a family vacation at Christmastime. Basically we knew which building Anna Wintour worked in, that a 5'7" height requirement was going to prevent either of us from joining the Rockettes, that the subway ran all night and that was amazing, that we were allegedly going to be able to supplement our darling Coach and Louis collections with faux Prada and Chanel from a Chinatown that was so clearly superior to Boston's Chinatown, and that the rents we were about to encounter were more money per month than we had ever had in our checking accounts.

We stayed in an apartment belonging to a friend of my parents' with a movie studio job and company car service. He kindly handed over his key and went to stay elsewhere for the weekend, leaving us with a bottle of Grey Goose in the freezer and a cookie jar full of miniature Hershey's bars and instructions to call him if we got dead.

His place was in West Chelsea, a one-bedroom in a building with a doorman and an elevator. It had central air conditioning, a floor-to-ceiling picture window in the living area, two bathrooms, and room for cartwheels.

I assumed we would get something similar. But with two bedrooms, of course.

The next day we met Tom. We were hung over from a long night at Bar None. (I know, okay? No one is classy at 22.) He blinked when he saw two of us, but Jen insisted that we did want to see the one-bedroom for $1,450 she had inquired about.

It was in the upper '80s, somewhere east of Lex, of course, but west of York, so, you know. The fug part of the Upper East Side. It was adorable. It was tiny. The bedroom barely held the one twin bed it had, and it was lofted for dresser space below. The living area was a couch with a TV basically perched on one arm. I think there was a stove someplace.

My BFF turned to me, with shining eyes.

"What do you think?"

I was mostly, as a red-blooded 22-year-old who had just started seeing a super-hot hockey player who had promised to visit often, trying frantically to figure out how how sex would be possible in such close quarters. With room for one bed. And also where would all my boots go?

I said nothing, and turned horrified eyes on Tom the Realtor.

"I'm not showing this one anymore today, so we'll keep it in mind," he said. "But I've got a 2-bed a couple blocks up that I think would really suit you two better."

He took us to 91st and 1st, up three flights, and opened the door.

To a hallway. With a sink in it.

"This one is $1,600," Tom informed us, as we took note of the fact that the apartment certainly appeared spacious enough, if one looked up. The ceiling reached at least 12 feet. The floorspace was maybe 500 sq. feet, however and laid out narrowly.

The living area was a hallway. Perhaps 5 feet wide and 12 feet long, it had a stove with a couple of cabinets above it at one end, and a sink randomly a few feet from that. A couch would have meant side-stepping, and no hope for a table of any sort.

The bathroom ran parallel to the living area, and was even more narrow.

"Do we have any fat friends?" I asked my BFF as I wandered inside, side-stepping my way down along the tub to where the toilet sat at the far end, modestly concealed with a little half-wall. "Because I don't think they can pee here."

She confirmed that we did not, and I joined her in the master bedroom, which was, in truth, fine. New York-sized, so small, but not inconceivable, with a decent closet and superior natural light. We grinned at each other and raced back down the hallway/living room to the far end, and opened the door to the other bedroom.

I gasped.

"This is a closet, no?" My BFF demanded of Tom, who scowled, unamused.

We (idiotically) did not have a tape measurer, and Tom spoke New York real estate-ese, which means every room you will ever see can allegedly "fit a full bed," so we never did end up knowing the true dimensions of the room, but based upon the furniture moved in and how it all laid out, I'm going to guess that it was maybe 7 feet wide and 9 feet at the longest point (because, of course, the closet was built out into the room instead of into a wall).

It had one window, which faced the brick wall of the building next door, about 12 inches away. It got no light. The closet had shelves reachable by none shorter than Alexander Skarsgard.

"Um. Well." We stared at each other, me still with the horror, my BFF still with the gleam. Tom hurried us out the door, informed us that this was, in fact, the only apartment in New York and we could take it or die a suburban death and that we had labout negative a minute to decide, and then went to take a phone call.

"I don't believe him," I announced, and my BFF nodded in agreement but also waved a dismissive hand.

"Me either, he's bullying us," she said. "But what do you think? Do you want it?"

"Do I want it?" I repeated. "It's ... awful."

"It is not," she argued, developing an immediate defensive stance toward the Hall Closet (as I would immediately christen it) that many would mock her for until she agreed, somewhere around 2007, how bad it had been. "It's a 2-bedroom apartment! In Manhattan! And this is what we came here to do!"

I pondered, and watched her. "Do you want it?" I asked. "I mean, you do. I know you do."

"I just want to live here," she replied. "And you do too. It doesn't matter what the apartment is. You're just thinking too much. This works."

"Okay," I agreed. "Then we'll take it."

And we did. At $1,600/month we needed guarantors (and my dad laughed uncontrollably when he saw what he had guaranteed a few weeks later, then deemed it "perfect"), and a coin toss to eliminate the potential Catholic guilt the other would suffer forever if one voluntarily took the smaller room meant (of course) that I got it.

It did indeed fit my full bed, but I was forced to choose between my bed frame and having the room literally consist of a bed alone, or wedging one tiny end table into a corner in a desperate attempt at making it look less ridiculous and having someplace to stick a lamp since the room never saw the sun. I opted for the latter and snarled in distaste as I stacked my box spring and mattress directly on the floor.

But it worked. And I never looked back, and I never, for an instant, have regretted listening to my BFF. Sure, we would have eventually found something else, but we ended up having a ton of fun that Friday afternoon in the city after we signed our paperwork, and the Hall Closet remains host to a ton of memories that I wouldn't dream of trading for a doorman. And hey, it had roof access, at least.

Plus, when the lease ran out the next summer we opted not to renew, and I found our second place (low '80s, nearly as east as possible, so, you know, not cool in the slightest, but one of the prettiest, nicest, most tree-lined parts of the Upper East Side - Yorkville ftw, thanks very much) in true Kim Luck (the good version) fashion - by mentioning our search to a friend who was marrying up (and over, to the UWS) and leaving her place the same time we were looking to move. And my unlucky coin toss of the year prior guaranteed me the larger, sunnier, complete with an exposed brick wall, bedroom in the new place.

Everything comes around, see. Kim Luck, the good kind.

* * * * *

Six years later, I'm the proactive apartment hunter. My soon-to-be-roommate is not my BFF, who remained in NYC all those years I was gone and currently is living it up in one of the largest studio apartments I have ever seen, but a good friend who I met down there, and who also did the leave-and-regret.

She is the funniest girl I have ever known, and one of the nicest. Everyone who meets her falls in love with her.

But she is not the strong personality of the two of us, and she is not a decision-maker. She's an overthinker, and a panicker.

And so I am, kind of, for lack of a better descriptor, in charge of the operation.

We met at my BFF's last Thursday, both armed with a list of realtors and scheduled appointments.

It was hot and it smelled like trash and the air conditioners dripped on you from above quite jarringly until you got used to it.

It was July again and I was apartment-hunting on the Upper East Side. Again. But without my BFF, at least until she would join us after she finished work.

And I decided that to get it done, I would need to find a little bit of her in me - I had to be the one to say, "this works" and convince my skeptical roommate that whatever it is, it will be fine once we've hung some curtains.

And oh my did that go interestingly.

Stay tuned for Part 2: In Which I Get Closet Blinders and Future Roommate Learns That "Bartender" is the Dirtiest Word in New York.

Here is something lovely.

2010-07-07T15:13:00.000-07:00

I'm being a terrible blogger because I'm busy trying to lock down my Manhattan apartment this week.

Sorry.

But for now, here is THIS:

Mmm.

(via henners&bradders)

P.S. I'll probably switch to Tumblr after I move. I just feel I'm about to become lazy and photo-driven. I know.

A Dramatic Post: 6 Bracelets I Will Die Without

2010-06-29T14:35:00.000-07:00

It's almost my birthday in a few weeks, and I want to buy myself a whole bunch of bracelets. I'm going through a bracelet phase.

I won't actually be buying myself any, because I recently bought myself a new Botkier bag (the Howard St. satchel, of which Alice Cullen is a big fan in case you were wondering), but instead I will just list them here so that my many secret admirers can get a pool together.

The Kimberley Bracelet. Well, I mean, duh. It's named after me and even spelled correctly. From J.Crew.

I wear a lot of navy blue and nautical inspirations. This little pave number would go with like 89% of my wardrobe. Also from J.Crew Here is a peacock cuff! It is awesome, and it was designed by Nicole Richie, a celebrity I also find quite awesome. By House of Harlow.

I would like some pyramid bracelets for when I am pretending to be a rockstar like Taylor Momsen, aka Little Jenny Humphrey, aka Cindy Lou Who. Please do not mention the nOir sales of late that both Gilt and Ideeli held. I was incommunicado at those times and will just get upset knowing I missed them. nOir Jewelry.

Of the approximately 12 uber-preppy Kiel James Patrick bracelets I'm lusting after, this one is perhaps the one I want the most, simply because it has horsies on it, and it is named after the town that my hometown is named for. Barnstaple and Burntack Flat, by Kiel James Patrick.

Alkemie & Zipper Cuff. I first saw this at The Vie Society. I enjoy that it is listed under women's jewelry with the description: "Would be great for a man!" A portion of sale proceeds go to charity (I pick Ocean Champions!). At Econscious Market.

Woo-hoo, wrist decor!

Good Hair Thursday: An Icy Cool Tip for Quick Shine!

2010-06-24T19:54:00.000-07:00

Now that's it's summer, and everyone I know is in turn basking in beach days and bitching about high humidity, it's the perfect time to try out one of my favorite, if most masochistic, simple hair tricks.

Ready?

Tomorrow, when you've finished showering, before you get out, take a few seconds to turn the hot water knob completely off and stick your head under the ice-cold stream for a five-count.

It's much harder than it sounds, actually acting on the whole cold shower concept, but it's easier now than ever - and it really does provide an insta-boost to your hair's gloss level.

What happens is the icy blast closes up the cuticles on the hair shaft and instantly seals moisture inside, which basically means you're trapping all that conditioning you just did inside instead of letting a bunch of it steam off in the heat.

(Of note: This works best in conjunction with air-drying, so if you're a dedicated blow-dryer, you'll still be benefiting your hair but might not see such shiny results.)

The same concept works with the pores in your skin as well, so this summer take note of how much better your skin not only feels but looks after you splash cold water or run an ice cube over it.

And, I'd assume it's a great eye-opener on mornings you find yourself dragging (I myself am actually a nighttime shower-er, unless I'm forced to get up earlier than 7 a.m. and basically have to water-torture myself out of my zombie state.)

Triple threat!

Monday (fine, Tuesday) I'm In Love With: Don Juan

2010-06-22T17:16:00.000-07:00

Don Juan would be my cat. He's actually only recently post-kitten aged, but I don't know what dumb thing to call that. I mean, "doggler" works impeccably for dog toddlers, but "cattler" is awful. "Catlet", perhaps?

So this is a totally cheap post, I know. I have been so busy the past week and a half somehow that I can't see straight. I'm not even sure what I'm talking about trying to keep up with various networking mediums right now. But anyway. This is Don Juan (DJ being the diminutive by which most people call him, he is also sometimes known as Prince Hot Ginge):

He is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the Greatest Cat in the Entire Universe and all the Other Universes. Trust me. People have tried to argue this point, and upon meeting DJ always concede that, yes, he is better than their cats. I swear.

He will play fetch, he is infamous for bathing anyone who sits down near him, he has golden eyes like a Twilight vampire, he yells at me all day long in an adorable little bird chirpy voice, and he is generally adorned with a bow tie or a costume or a collar with pirate ships on it.

I saved him from certain death, a tale I'll attempt to find time to share this week and which is guaranteed to make you get all weepy.

(His name when I found him was Sniffles. I know. Sniffles. God, people.)

Good Hair Thursday: Moroccanoil(R) Oil Treatment

2010-06-17T15:46:00.000-07:00

Welcome to science class by Kim. Don't worry, it's obviously science for those who double-majored in English and boys, with a minor in hair and clothes.

Today we're going to talk about one of my favorite products, Moroccan oil treatment by Moroccanoil (R).

Basically, it's a strengthening, restorative oil treatment made up of a bunch of silicones (a good thing for your hair - silicone is very good for de-frizzing) and Argan oil*, a carotene-rich oil full of unsaturated fatty acids that is revered for its moisturizing effects on hair and skin.

My stylist turned me onto it, and, much like Keratin (more on this soon) and other protein treatments, the idea is to apply it to hair while wet and then seal it in with heat. I cheat sometimes - as I've mentioned, I hate blow-drying my daunting mane - and personally utilize it mostly just on the ends of my hair, and don't find that it diminishes the results much.

The results, which, in my experience, are indisputable. Moroccanoil strengthens the hair, wards off split ends, reduces frizz and, particularly when heat styled immediately following application, boosts shine impressively.

Also, it smells delicious enough to drink. (You may have noticed I talk about hair product scent pretty often. I know there are some people who prefer minimally-scented, or unscented, products. I am not one of those people. Most of the stuff I like to put in my hair is potent - borderline perfumey, even. I haven't had any complaints.)

My stylist has also used the Moroccanoil Intense Curl Cream on me a time or two, and between that and a jumbo curling iron achieved glossy, enviable Serena van der Woodsen-esque waves that I have yet to even bother attempting to re-create on my own, and I'm dying to get my hands on the Intense Hydrating Mask.

Of note - and this is coming from the chick whose hair makes up approximately a third of her body weight, just about, and is notoriously dry - a little goes a long way. I use a drop about the size of a nickel and it's plenty. I would recommend pennies or dimes for people with normal hair, and the Moroccanoil Light Treatment for those with finer hair.

* Many people swear by pure Argan oil as a hair and skin treatment. I have not tried this yet, and am not sure, considering what a fan I am of the Moroccanoil treatment, how soon I'll get around to it -- but I'd love to hear from you if you have!

New feature! Monday I'm in Love (with): Kiel James Patrick accessories.

2010-06-14T14:45:00.000-07:00

I was going to make a "Friday, I'm in Love (with):" feature, for the obvious play on the Cure song, but I realized pretty quickly that I rarely blog on Fridays, and already have a feature post on Thursdays, so I decided to go with Mondays. And really, what better day than Monday than to forgo whining and talk about something I'm in love with? Starting the week off on a good note and all that, right?

So, welcome to Monday I'm in Love (with)! Without further adieu, here we go.

Remember these guys?

They make me think summer.

Growing up on the Cape, my story is a variation of everyone else's: Memorial Day, unofficial kickoff of the season, saw the procurement of the sailor's knot bracelet, which you slipped on and then basically sutured to your wrist with the first dip in the ocean, or shower, whichever came first.

For the next three months, it would grow grimy and discolored, salt and sand crusting between fibers, until Labor Day rolled around and your mother came at you with the heavy-duty scissors, which was the only, and final, means of removal.

Everyone in school sported the same tan line in early fall when I was growing up.

Post-college, it became more and more difficult to make the bracelet last. Reasons abounded:

- I landed a corporate job with a serious dress code and it bulked suspiciously beneath my sleeve.

- All my new New York friends were hipster judgeyfaces, picking on my Docksides and Nantucket reds and accessories made of ropes.

- I was politely asked to remove it before a friend's nuptials because it didn't go with my bridesmaid dress.

Whatever the reason, yeah. It became harder and harder not to have to cut my sailor's knot off well before what I considered its lifespan had been exhausted.

But what's this?

Someone, with a similar story (though more eloquently expressed) and infinite more artistic talent than myself, designed a grown up version. With buttons. You can take the bracelets off and put them back on. How great is that?!

His name is Kiel James Patrick, and at his site here you can find a plethora of rope bracelets and more, all, awesomely, crafted in with local materials from his home state of Rhode Island.

AND I AM COMPLETELY, UTTERLY IN LOVE WITH THESE DESIGNS.

I started basic (btw, shipping is currently - perhaps indefinitely, I don't know - FREE in the US and Canada, and the packaging the bracelet arrived in was absolutely adorable and personalized), because it's the best way to start, but I've already got my eye on several others, and you should check them out too!

Kiel James Patrick

Good Hair Thursday: Hello Hydration!

2010-06-10T16:17:00.000-07:00

Truth: 95% of the time, I use relatively cheap shampoo.

The 5% of the time I use expensive shampoo exists due to occasional peer pressure from my stylist, or gifts.

As I've mentioned, I spend a lot of time and money on conditioning, and my hair doesn't need super-regular or, well, professional quality washing. So while I'm liable to shell out for a $40 bottle of conditioner, I can often be found picking up a bottle of whatever smells nice and costs less than $10 where shampoo is concerned.

Additionally, I'm not overly (read: at all) concerned with my shampoo, or any of my hair products, being all-natural, chemical-free, or holistic home apothecary potions (more on this later - some of your comments have got me thinking of future posts).

One of my favorite cheap shampoos has a conditioner partner that I'm also incredibly fond of, when I'm having a poor month or otherwise: Herbal Esse nces Hello Hydration (and yes! It can also be found at my nemesis store, CVS).
This stuff is the nectar of the proletariat gods or something, no joke. It's a triple threat:

1.) Cheap.

2.) INCREDIBLE smelling (and the scent lingers). For example: I just got back from a run in some rain showers, so my hair is damp -and it smells like I just got out of the shower, when in actuality, the last time I washed it was Monday. I also once had a boy roommate who would, without fail, come to my room following every shower I took in which I used the stuff to inform me that I always had the best after-shower scent of anyone in our house.

3.) Shockingly effective. For example: On Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, I had a yard sale. I had to get up early to get set up, so I took a shower around 5:30 a.m., using Hello Hydration shampoo and conditioner and nothing else. I combed my hair out, did not blow dry, and proceeded to spend the next 10 hours outside in 78-degree, sunny weather. That night my hair was flawless waves, frizz-free, shiny and soft.

The hydrating agents are orchid and coconut milk, and rinsing the shampoo alone is as easy as rinsing some high-end conditioners. The conditioner itself is a dream, and on occasion I've substituted it for body wash and/or shaving gel for my legs.

Also, Herbal Essences will forever remind me of this French project I did in the 9th grade. We had to film commercials entirely in French, and then show them to the class. While most of the students acted in their own commercial pitching one product, made up or otherwise, my two partners and I decided to randomly videotape five actual commercials off of the tv and then dub ourselves over the sound.

For the most part, we just translated the actual commercials, but with some, like the Herbal Essences commercial (which basically consisted of some hair model prancing around a beach tossing her hair, and no dialogue), we had to improvise. Ever since, I cannot hear/see/think of Herbal Essence products without announcing, in varying degrees of loud to shrieking: "Je vais courir derrière la roche maintenant!"

Which means, "I am going to run behind the rock now!" Because, you know, that's what the model did, but it wasn't until we presented our commercial to the class that we recognized the hilarity of such a non-sequiter in the middle of our shampoo pitch.

And now you're most likely going to forever shriek that (en français ou en anglais) any time you use an Herbal Essences product as well, or else you're not nearly as awesome as I give you credit for.

Botkier Pre-Fall est arrivé!

2010-06-09T16:21:00.000-07:00

(In other words, help me pick out my next handbag!)

The pre-fall collection by my favorite handbag designer, Botkier, was released for pre-order on Monday, and I've been lusting over the new "Maddie" line ever since.

My immediate favorites were these two:

The Maddie Satchel, in cranberry. I adore the star-like little studs on this line - I'm picky about my hardware, and I like how this manages to make the studding both subtle but a focal point. Satchel bags are also my go-to, generally, because the more conservative structure and satchel handles are totally chic for work, but the shoulder strap allows for comfort and versatility.

HOW CUTE IS THIS LITTLE GUY? Against type in both style and pattern, somewhat, for my personal style, the Maddie Shoulder in metallic camo has kind of stolen my heart. I wear boots almost exclusively in the fall, with a lot of neutrals and jackets, and I think this would look awesome.

Since I'm on a spending freeze, or at least pretending to be, I'm crowd-sourcing: Which do you think I should go for?

New feature: Good Hair Thursdays!

2010-06-03T15:04:00.000-07:00

Oh hai, look at me with this whole blog theme thing.

I've decided that, in the interest of organization and moving beyond just ego-blogging (to concentrated ego-blogging, you see!) I'm going to attempt to appoint Thursday, my favorite day of the week not counting weekend days, as the day I talk about my favorite thing about me: My hair.

Okay, actually just hair in general. But mostly mine. And products. Yay, products!

As I've mentioned, my hair has oft been color-treated, and I've done a number on it over the past decade or so, but I give it a lot of credit for being such great hair through it all.

My hair is long, and it is thick. It's not exactly curly, but it's a billion miles from straight. At best it's this awesome kind of ripply mane. At worst, it's this poofy kind of lion's mane. Mostly it's just a lot.

Par exemple:

Sometimes it's a spectacle. I have to buy it its own seat on airplanes and such.

As I mentioned, it's very, very thick. I could probably make a couple of wigs out of it and still have a full head left over. I have several times grown it out to chop a foot off to donate. It always comes back, thicker than ever. I'm not complaining, but super thick hair definitely has its own host of needs.

To start, I sure do NOT wash it every day (calm down, of course I wash the rest of me every day). I don't love the fact that I can't, but, basically that's just it - I can't. My hair drinks moisture in like it's been wandering in a desert for weeks - if I washed it every day, its natural oils would have no chance and it would turn to 17 pounds of straw.

So I wash it 3-4 times a week, and it's a production. You know the "I have to wash my hair" excuse? Don't ever be offended if I use that one on you. I'm serious, I have to wash my hair, and I'll be a while. And when I do, I use twice as much conditioner as I do shampoo. And once a week, I use a deep conditioner, or a hair mask.

Which brings me to today's featured product! (*Of note: None of my posts are sponsored. If I write about it, I bought it my damn self, or got someone to buy it for me.)

Beyond the Zone Last Call Hair Masque

This was a random purchase last week, when I stopped into a Sally Beauty Supply store in search of the brightest neon-pink nail polish I could find for under $10 (success! China Glaze!).

My favorite hair mask to date is Sebastian Professional Penetraitt Masque, but seeing as I go through so much of the stuff, I'm forever trying products with lower price points (Neutrogena makes a great deep conditioning mask, available for just $7.99 at the dreaded CVS).

I hated the packaging of this Last Call mask (or masque, as it is referred by name), but I liked the price tag ($8.99, and for a 7 oz jar) and I did like the packaging on the leave-in conditioner of the same brand that was next to it on the shelf, so I decided to give it a go.

The first thing I noticed was that the container becomes very slippery when wet, and it flew out of my hand, hit the ground, bounced under the door of the shower, and then fell on the grass and under the shower (oh, I use an outdoor shower, for reference - well, now, anyway, being warm enough to). So I had to exit the shower, half-dripping, in a towel, and crawl around in the grass to retrieve the mask, for starters.

The second thing I noticed was the smell. It was ... overwhelming. Not bad (not entirely good) but just potent. And candy-esque. It smelled strongly like Sweettarts, crossed with something chemical. Odd. And there were tiny purple beads mixed into the lobster bisque-colored cream.

I shrugged it off and applied the mask, then hung around for the eternity that is 5 minutes and rinsed it out.

The third thing I noticed? Unlike with most other hair masks, I didn't feel any immediate result - i.e., my hair was not slipping through my fingers like silk while I rinsed it. In fact, it didn't even feel conditioned, which was especially weird since I had used conditioner prior to applying the mask.

It combed out very easily, though, and the smell actually became quite pleasant as a lingering hint combined I suppose with my own natural hair smell, so I felt a little better.

I don't blow dry my hair if I can help it, 1) because it does not need any more heat styling than what I subject it to with my flatiron and curling iron fairly regularly, and 2) because it takes me over an hour. So I had to wait a while for my end result.

Which was?

Just okay.

My hair definitely felt soft, and it was completely frizz-free, but overall it was just left kind of big, with zero shine. I didn't use any other products (I am a fan of various oils and serums that I apply to my hair dry, as well as leave-in conditioners) along with the mask, so it may be the type of product that can't stand alone. Being that I still have 5-point-something ounces left of the stuff, I'm sure I'll be experimenting and let you know if I discover any miracles. For now, though, I give it 2.5 out of 5.

(Available at Sally Beauty Supply Stores, online and I am not sure where else!)

A suggestion.

2010-06-02T17:03:00.000-07:00

(photo found here)

Get thee to Trader Joe's (yes, New Yorkers, that means get in the stupid line).

Purchase.

Enjoy. Especially for breakfast.

You're welcome.

Warning: Not for those seeking something super sweet. I would put the sweetness level on par with TJ's excellent dark chocolate-covered edamame, though a touch more ... sticky.

Peer pressure.

2010-06-01T19:39:00.000-07:00

So I'm on Twitter now, at least until I lose interest (it has happened before).

Please follow me, because I obviously can't handle not being popular.

"YOU CAN'T BE DOING THIS!!!"

2010-05-27T15:29:00.000-07:00

I am not a CVS Person.

Yesterday afternoon I indulged in a little hump day happy hour with a couple of my co-workers and made mention of the fact that I would be swinging by CVS on my way home to pick up some Crest White Strips. This comment led to both co-workers divulging that they are, in fact, CVS People, meaning that for them, it is often home to those kinds of shopping experiences where you go in for toothpaste and come out $80 in the hole.

I find that there are many, many CVS People (they tend to only be surpassed in numbers by Target People) but I just don't really comprehend the idea.

I have certainly wandered innocently enough into Bloomingdales or Nordstrom and exited a bit dazed and confused as to the new Longchamp on my arm or sequined shrug that would be oh so perfect for New Years Two-Thousand-and-Something carefully nestled in tissue paper, but I've never really found myself trance-shopping in CVS's aisles.

It could be that I prefer to buy my makeup at department stores, or that even though I obviously recognize the necessity of toilet paper, I have never lived in an apartment that was really conducive to taking advantage of the type of sale that sends you home with a 6-month supply of something.

OR it could be that CVS has an agenda, and is after my sanity more than my wallet.

I'm still spitting nails over this one time I ran in to buy Tylenol probably a decade ago: As I was approaching the counter, smiling and cheery, a Russian couple with a carriage (a carriage! At CVS!) barrel-assed up from the candy aisle, legitimately intercepted me at the pass, parked in front of me, and proceeded to turn to me in utter horror and begin shrieking at top volume about what nerve I had to think I could just cut right to the front of the line. Other patrons were actually peeking around corners to catch a glimpse of me, the offensive teenager who refused to adhere to lines and respect my elders and needed to go to "finishing school to learn a manner!" according to these people.

Then there was the time a friend and I braved the ever-packed, ever-trashed Davis Square CVS in Somerville and found ourselves waiting in a line that wound its way almost clear around the perimeter of the store.

As we were standing there patiently, chatting amongst ourselves and hoping we weren't going to be too late for our dinner plans, a young couple with a carriage (of the baby-containing variety, not the shopping kind, this time), appeared in the corner of my eye. As I looked on, they slowly edged closer and closer, until they were basically standing on top of us, and then they oh-so-nonchalantly just slipped in front of us.

I was so outraged I threw the box of tampons (tampons!) I was holding on the ground. Even when it bounced of the wheel of their spawn-holder, they pretended to be invisible.

Obviously I am no stranger to rude people in crowds. As a person of smaller stature, I'm often legitimately stepped on by people who will then brush off my near death with a "Oh, I didn't even see you there!" - like, what? But what I'm saying is, at CVS it just always seems so personal. Also, the lighting is terrible. and so, despite the lovely pharmacists always managing to fill my allergy scrips in a timely manner and the purveyance of teeth bleaching agents, I am not a CVS Person.

But, it's a necessary destination, at times, and so there I was, last night, for Crest White Strips. Feeling good, because not only did I have a product coupon, I had receipt coupons for $10 and $3.50 in CVS Dollars back or whatever they're called.

I hurried around the store, throwing some cheapie conditioner and dental floss into a basket, and then headed for the Crest products.

None of the versions of White Strips covered by my $10 off product coupon sat upon the shelf.

I glanced appraisingly at the checkout counter to see if perhaps it might be manned by a high school male who could be talked into scanning it anyway.

No dice. Grandma, and she looked crotchety.

Because like hell I was going to try another location, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd be saving only $13.50 on the $40 product instead of $23.50. I decided that this was still a good deal, being that Crest White Strips are a product I will buy full price if I have no coupons anyway, and I headed to the counter.

Smiling, cheery.

I presented my CVS Dollars coupons, and Grandma snatched them without a glance and set them aside and proceeded to ring me in, then barked the total at me.

"Um," I indicated, still smiling, to my coupons. She huffed, but scanned them. The $3.50 deducted immediately.

The $10 receipt did not beep. She tried a second time, and then handed it to me.

"That one doesn't work."

I was still smiling. "Oh ... well, it's good through today, see, the date is here ... can you key it in or something, maybe?"

"It's NOT WORKING!" she yelled. I am not kidding. She yelled.

I stopped smiling. "Well, it's YOUR store's coupon."

She huffed again, but snatched it back, examined it and the $3.50 coupon, and then raised her head with such a vicious glare I was momentarily convinced I must have put a Pucci bikini of hers in the dryer in a past life or something.

"These. Card. Numbers. Do. Not. Match."

Realization dawned on me, and I immediately became apologetic.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I think I know what happened. I was in for a prescription last month and couldn't find my card. The pharmacist gave me an upgraded one - the kind that gives better rewards on pharmacy fillings? - but for some reason he couldn't find me in the system. Probably my fault, I move a lot ... anyway, I bet the new card has a different number, and here, I have them both now, I can show you ..." I trailed off upon noticing that she was giving me the destroyed Pucci look again. "Yeah. Sorry?"

"This one doesn't work." She flung the $10 coupon back at me.

I tried to smile again, seeing as I now realized this was sort of my fault even though not really.

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "It's just - this one expires today, and I earned it using my CVS card ... cards, I guess ... is there any way I could make two purchases and apply one to each?"

"YOU CAN'T BE TWO PEOPLE!" She shrieked. I stared.

"I don't want to be two people," I replied (not smiling anymore, or even trying). "I want to be one person, making two purchases, because your rewards system either had a glitch or your staff couldn't spell my name. But in either case, I have two eligible coupons, and I want to use them."

"YOU CAN'T BE DOING THIS!!!" Her shriek grew in volume. At this point, another customer came up behind me and gave me a curious look. I had to lock my jaw briefly to keep composure.

"Doing what, ma'am?" I ma'am-ed Grams.

"Trying to sneak extra coupons," she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and gave the woman behind me a wide-eyed, appalled look.

"WHAT?!" I demanded. "I am not trying to sneak ... okay, you know what? Nevermind. Fine. One purchase, one coupon. I want to use the bigger coupon then, the one that expires today."

"No," she answered.

"No?"

"I will have to void the whole thing and start over," she explained, again as patronizingly as possible.

"Uh-huh," I nodded. "And there are three items. And that would be your job."

She gasped in horror. "YOU CAN'T BE DOING THIS!!!"

"Lady, I can't wha - okay, fine. FUCK IT ALL. I'll just go." Clearly, this is where I lost it.

This time her look was horrified church lady. If she'd been wearing pearls, they'd have been clutched. "You can't do THAT!"

"Pretty sure I can, see?" I retorted, turning and beginning to storm away from the counter.

I smacked directly into what I assume was the shift leader - a high school male. He re-rang my items, applied both coupons, and then the third, non-eligible one that I snuck him out of spite while Grandma continued shooting me dirty looks.

"Oh, here," the boy added, as he was handing me my receipt. "You earned $10 more CVS Dollars, valid until June 26. Don't lose that receipt!"

GAH.

(I have been feeling guilty about saying "fuck" in front of a Grandma for about 27 hours now)

Thinking about focusing the old blog a bit better ...

2010-05-24T16:29:00.001-07:00

I've been noticing my blogging efforts of late (or, rather, of ... always) have been veering into haul blogger territory more than, you know, simple straightforward narcissism or ego-blogging, and I'm a little perturbed.

Not really. My real problem is that I'm supposed to be (because I want to be) writing about good hair and Kim Luck (and moving back to New York, and then surviving in New York), and I've been coming up pretty short on those topics, so I'm going to try to do better.

(Starting tomorrow, because tonight I'm watching some Cillian Murphy movie and thinking about maybe eating ice cream while I do so.)

But, as a teaser, here's a Good Hair photo, circa 2008, about 2/3 of the way through my deep brunette phase that lasted a solid 3 years (with some interesting twists).

I love, love, LOVED being brunette for a dozen-plus reasons (topping the list: SO SHINY!; the Smarter Stereotype; and brightened blue eyes) but have of late gone back the other way due to upkeep.

Generally speaking, unless hair is a very light blonde (which mine is not), the upkeep of dyed brown hair is pretty easy.

Of course, my hair can pretty much be discussed in any terms except general ones, and no matter how permanent or dark I went, I was forever struggling with rapid fading, particularly around my face.

Returning to blonde(ish) has left me with a need to almost become completely reacquainted with my own hair - after years of deep dyes and 4+ color treatments per year, average, it's not the same hair I had through my early 20s. In some ways it's better, in some ways it's annoying, but overall, it takes up a lot of my attention and oh man do I try lots of products on it.

Which (I'm not promising, because I hate promising things) I will attempt to document better going forward. So, should that interest anyone, you have something to look forward to!

And should it not, feel free to tell me my hair is pretty anyway, and check back for the posts about how I fell down again or got coffee in my eye (all. the. time.) or almost found myself on a date with a dude who may or may not be seeking the wisdom of wizards (true story), because those will still be happening as well.

Grown up. Ish.

2010-05-22T08:10:00.000-07:00

Today marks the six-year anniversary of my graduation from college.

I only know this because I was alerted by Facebook that UNH's Class of 2010's ceremony is today. The date felt familiar, so I dug out the Tiffany sterling bracelet (a hook and eye bangle with an 18K gold ball closure, not one of those Return to Tiffany heart tag toggle chain things that defined high fashion for sorority girls across America in the early '00s) that my parents had inscribed with the date as a gift for the occasion and confirmed that, yes, May 22, 2004 was the day.

I guess this is something of a moment ... I recognize that six years was a while ago, and that six years is longer than a college career, but I don't really feel anything. I don't feel old, and I don't feel like I want to go back, and I don't miss it.

Contrasted with with my one-year anniversary, or (dear god) my four-year anniversary, or even my four-month or so anniversary when I received a letter from the fundraising department of my sailing team with the salutation, "Dear UNH Sailing Team Alumni," and moments later burst through the door of my hilariously small first NYC apartment startling my roommate with my indignant shrieking and threatening tears at the sight of such a dirty word, my nonchalance is downright an accomplishment.

It's also reminiscent of how my 23rd and 25th birthdays hit me like life crises of epic proportions, resulting in mass vodka consumption, retail therapy at Louis Vuitton and Lanvin, respectively, slutty banquet dancing and meaningless sex, and searching for crow's feet with a magnifying class, but my 27th and the transition from my mid-to-late twenties barely registered as I lounged on a beach with my best friends (there was still some vodka consumption, of course).

I've always thought that people who forgot "milestone" dates, or even briefly had to think to remember how old they were (Dad) were either lying or crazy, but I think I'm coming around to the idea that maybe they're just comfortable with the past being the past and the present being life. While I've never been one to live in the past, I have been one to count days and measure experience and panic about the passing of time - but I think (I hope) that's slipping away a little, as I become more and more okay with the things I can't control and the person that I am.

(Of course, the Dread 28, the first of my Scary Ages, is mocking me from less than two months down the road ... so anticipate a meltdown that completely contradicts everything I've expressed here.)

Flip-flops, part deux: In which I request you make decisions for me.

2010-05-19T17:33:00.000-07:00

*Warning: Post-run feet photo ahead (not that gross as far as feet go, but feet all the same)

I have yet to purchase my Sanuk flip-flops (because I AM ON A SPENDING FREEZE AND DEAR GOD IT HAS GOT TO START BEING ENFORCED), but in the interim was today presented with a gift of the Havaiana variety - times TWO!

But, in the interest of cleansing, and due to the fact that very very soon my overall living space - not to mention my closet without any shadow of a doubt - is going to shrink appallingly, I will be gifting a pair to a very lovely girl who shares my baby shoe size (which, honestly, I always thought was just on the smaller side of average, but in the twilight of my youth find myself oft-corrected about).

So, the question is: Which pair of brightly colored foot coozies (OH GOD, there's a discussion for another day - is it coozy or cozy?) do I part with?

Indigo Blue (L) or Lake Green?

(Should I keep Lake Green, I promise never to wear them with those insanely clashing Lilly Pulitzer short shorts - it's laundry day, sorry, and you know I'm just narcissistic enough that I needed a photo with them on so I could show off my cute polish.)

Oh, EFF. To the nth degree times infinity.

2010-05-18T19:31:00.001-07:00

Friday, 5/21.

11 a.m. EST.

Rue La La.

Madison Avenue Couture. HERMES AND CHANEL. Hermes! AND! Chanel!

Someone tie me up. That's right, I just gave you permission. Bind, gag, blindfold. The works.

Cross-posted from my Facebook (which for some reason sparked the interest of NONE in a whole 9 hours) ...

2010-05-17T17:02:00.000-07:00

I'm really excited for this movie.

Tights are not pants!

2010-05-17T07:45:00.000-07:00

Q: Are yoga pants appropriate as anything other than workout/lounging inside your lodgings/running shamefully to the bodega and back ONLY because it's an ice cream emergency that must be attended to immediately attire?

A: No. (Optional expansion: This means they are not Sunday errand-wear, should not be "dressed up as capris!," should not be worn to a casual sporting or music event with omgsupercuteflatsthough, and FORTHELOVEOFFUCK they are not office attire). But really, "No" should be enough.

Laziness is grossing me out this week. Put some clothes on.

Flip-flops, blog pimpage, and some light Kim Luck

2010-05-11T17:00:00.000-07:00

This is a post about flip-flops, ultimately. However, when I attempt an allegory-style lead, I tend to ramble. You may have noticed. So, what I'm saying is, the flip-flops will be at the end, if you want to skip down. Otherwise, godspeed. I promise I'm re-teaching myself how to write wittily and concisely, it's just coming along ... slowly.

* * * * *

Last September my best friend Jen and I went to Spain for two weeks (Madrid, Barcelona, and possibly a little French countryside when we took a train in the wrong direction for an hour and a half). It was, hands-down, the best vacation I have ever taken -- and thanks to an amazing French tutor during high school and a semester abroad in London during college that provided the opportunity to visit most of Western Europe on a budget, I have taken my fair share of amazing vacations (and fully recognize how lucky I am for it) -- and I give her* a lot of the credit for my enjoyment, because she was a perfect travel buddy.

I don't think I would ever be able to stress enough how wisely one should choose traveling companions. I would easily put the need to seriously consider how you think you and a friend will do across an ocean and with a language barrier (Jen's Spanish is slightly above average and mine remains slightly below beginner despite a summer spent half-heartedly practicing with some For Dummies cds - to my credit, my French did save us one time!) right on par with the level of consideration you'd put into whether or not moving in with a friend will kill the friendship.

(Really. One iffy spring break in Ireland when we were 19 and one of my oldest friends and I are just now returning to the good place we once were.)

This is especially important when you're a regular victim of Kim Luck (or whatever your personal equivalent is), thus guaranteeing that nothing is ever going to exactly be smooth sailing.

Aside from the usual catastrophes (our hotel staff kept asking us to enter the PIN numbers for our credit cards and returning our blank stares with blank stares, that time on the train that went to France, all the times my Aryan coloring - yeah, I'm naturally and currently a lot blonder than my "About Me" photo (taken during the spring of 2009) reflects - and Jen's general adorableness nearly got us stolen or at the very least fed far more tequila shots than we could handle) it was my sandals that got us into one of our more perplexing situations.

About halfway through our time in Madrid, I had entirely obliterated the pair of gold flats I'd brought (we're talking holes at the baby toes and heels) and my stubborn insistence against donning my (perfectly adorable, navy blue Lacoste, but I was wearing sundresses every day duh) sneakers, meant that I was left with my spectacular bronze Chinese Laundry gladiator sandals. They're made of wood (the bottom) and really rough, studded leather (the top). Just, so you know.

Cut to, oh, say, mile 5 of what tended to be our daily 6+ mile treks around the city exploring/sightseeing/etc. Jen, in Converse, happily trots down a hill outside some utterly breathtaking Roman church constructed a million years before America was even a figment of an imagination. Kim limps behind, valiantly trying not to burst into tears as she leaves a small trail of blood with every baby step.

(Paraphrased, from memory)
Jen: "Hey, do you want - wait, are your feet hurting you?"
Kim: "No, I'm good."
Jen: "I'm pretty sure you're actually hobbling."
Kim: "Okay. Honestly, if you wanted to cut my feet off right now with an exceptionally dull butter knife, I would let you."
Jen: "Let's find a spot for Beer O'Clock and indefinite sitting!"
Kim: "BFF 4 LYFE."

Obviously, we then found ourselves in a 6 thousand mile stretch of NO PLACE FOR BEER O'CLOCK and I lost like nine toenails and cried soundlessly for a while, and then we finally staggered into a perfectly charming-looking little hole-in-the-wall bar, where our eyes lit up as they fell upon the Amstel tap.

(While in Spain we spent a lot of time drinking beers we would otherwise have little to no interest in, such as Amstel -not even Amstel Light!- and Carlsberg, because when in pronounciation doubt, just go for whatever is Dutch -or Scandinavian- it's bound to be entirely inoffensive, taste-wise, and you're pronouncing it wrong no matter who you are!)

So Jen marches happily up to the bar, friendly and polite: "Hola! Dos Amstel, por favor."

The bartender blinks at her, and snaps her gum.

"Que?"

Jen, smile faltering slightly: "Dos Amstel? Por favor?" She looks at me for affirmation and I nod, yes, this is how we have been doing this all week with banner results. We stare at the bartender. She stares back.

Jen, as politely as possible, indicates the Amstel tap and holds up two fingers. "Dos? Por favor?"

The bartender looks at the two patrons at the bar, who roll their eyes. One turns to us, bored, speaking English: "What do you want?"

Jen, appalled, still pointing: "Two Amstel!"

Patron and bartender converse with much giggling and eye rolling.

Bartender looks at Jen accusingly. "Cerveza." She pours the beers, and fills a plate with chips for us. We overtip grotesquely and retreat to a corner by a window.

Jen: "What the fuck just happened? There were like six kinds of cerveza! I have never not ordered it by name! How would that even work? You just ask for cerveza and she gets to pick?"

Kim: "No, she was clearly fucking with us. She hates us. Oh god, someone in Spain hates us! And we didn't even do an asshole American thing! We've been so good! We try!"

Jen: "I'm so mad. Let's leave. Are your feet better?"

Kim: "No. And this cerveza is really, really refreshing."

Jen: "True. Fuck her. Let's get another round. I want more chips. But it's your turn to order."

I nod, stumble to my bloody feet, and march/limp as purposefully to the bar as possible, tossing blonde hair everywhere.

"DOS CERVEZA POR FAVOR!" I yell at the top of my lungs in a French accent, and then smile.

The bartender smiles back, nods approvingly, pours me two beers, and then fills a plate with pink tentacles for me. I overtip grotesquely.

"Oh my god," Jen hisses. "She gave you tentacles. SO MANY TENTACLES!"

"Is she watching us?" I demand. "What do we do? We should write a book about single women traveling in Europe. This could be its own chapter - The Bartender Hates Me and My Food Has a Tentacle: Now What?"

"I will eat the peppers in the fish juice," Jen decides. "You eat the tentacles."

I glare.

"We can put them in a napkin and take them with us." She amends.

And so we finish our cervezas, hide the tentacles, and slip entirely conspicuously out the door, at which point I announce I will be purchasing the next pair of flip-flops I see to avoid further scenarios.

(I never actually do so, but fortunately Barcelona two days later is a clusterfuck Spring Break for obnoxious British adults and we represent America as a land of manners and intelligence and dental hygiene like champions, so whether we are limping or ordering a Danish beer or stumbling over our less-than-perfect Spanish, it is received like the body of Christ - I am not even kidding. Thanks, England - and to a lesser extent, Wales, and Ireland - for being assholes. We looked GREAT by comparison. However, I must say all your countries are stunning and I felt very welcome in them as well, XOXO.)

This September, Jen and I are going to Greece. I will be packing flip-flops - which begs the question, which flip-flops?

[* I also give buckets of credit to the beautiful, inspiring, culturally rich country of Spain and its incredibly hospitable, polite and gorgeous citizens for making the trip the best I've ever been on.]

* * * * *

One of my favorite lunch time reads is Jordan Reid's blog, Ramshackle Glam.

I find Jordan so incredibly easy to relate to, despite the fact that the similarities in our lives (age, neighborhood - well, former and hopefully soon-to-be-again neighborhood, in my case - ability to seek and enjoy luxury despite budget constraints) are only as noticeable as the differences (um, basically everything else) and I love the way she maintains her blog and really strives for interactivity with her readers while providing them with helpful, innovative little lifestyle recommendations. She also, awesomely, does tons of contests/giveaways (this is something another of my favorite bloggers, Katie Ett, mentioned wanting to do recently - which I can only imagine would be spectacular - and I have yet to be able to offer any valuable insight into) and even as a contest "loser," nine times out of 10 I find myself trying the products she recommends anyway.

Recently-ish, she had a contest where she gave away a pair of Planet Flops flip-flops, and I pretty much drooled. Sartorially speaking, flip-flops are nothing special, obviously, but as a Cape girl, a sailor, and a girl who murders her feet in 3+ inch heels 5-6 days a week, I think they're little bits of rubber heaven. And I most certainly do not think they're all created equally (in my opinion, you do have to pay for good flip-flops - meaning Old Navy sure has cute colors for $4, but if you held up a pair of those and my YSL mary janes and told me I had to pick a pair to wear for eight hours, I'd pick the stilettos).

I was a Reef fanatic for years and didn't think they could be beat, until I reluctantly (hey, when I'm loyal to something, it sticks) jumped on the Havaiana bandwagon and could barely even be bothered to look back fondly upon my Reefs, they were so comfy. Jordan specifically mentioned that her Planet Flops flip-flops even surpass her own beloved Havaianas, and I've been contemplating ever since. Of course, I thought I was contemplating anise v. blueberry v. plum v. pesto, until today.

Ahem.

AnotherofmyfavoritelunchtimereadsisNinaDobrev'sTwitter.

Wait, you didn't catch that? Fine.

Another of my favorite lunch time reads is Nina Dobrev's Twitter.

So, if you're not up on your ex-Degrassi actors (um, for shame, if that's the case), Nina currently stars in The Vampire Diaries, which I once wrote a mini-dissertation on and then bought a cameo necklace because of. And she has incredibly enviable hair, posts lots of pictures with gorgeous Ian Somerhalder, and just generally Tweets pleasant, interesting, sometimes servicey things.

(For the record: I do not have a Twitter, though I feel my willpower to resist waning by the day.)

Today Nina referenced her latest discovery in the flip-flop world - Sanuk. They're made of yoga mats (for the record: I do not do yoga) and the most comfortable flip-flops she has ever worn. And they are also as adorable as flip-flops can be, much like the Planet Flops (of note: there is only a $2 price differential between them, and both brands are on par with both Havaiana and Reef in the wallet department).

And so, my dilemma (I know, life's rough): How, dear readers (I know you're out there!) do I choose? Or do I choose both under the guise of this being a blogxperiment, the results of which I will present here over the course of the summer?

Keep in mind, I'm on a spending freeze this year, of course.

Met Ball 2010

2010-05-09T15:51:00.000-07:00

Much like most women of the same general thinking style of myself, the Costume Institute Gala held annually at the MET is the NYC social event I'm most interested in somehow finagling an invitation to somehow, someday.

This year's was held on 5/3 and the theme celebrated the opening of the "“American Woman: Fashioning a National Identity” exhibition. So ... let me know if you can pick up on that in any of the following!

My Top 3:

Sarah Jessica Parker in Halston. This is just ... beautiful. Aside from the overwhelmingly large flower?bow?, which I could have done without.

Claire Danes, in a Burberry oil spill that I want to wear to everything ever.

Emma Watson, also in Burberry, who apparently won the night for me. Also, hi, Hermione might be the only person who can manage a slit literally up to there without looking like a hooker.

Some other stuff I liked:

Malin Ackerman in Temperley London. This one might actually be my favorite, I'm not sure. I've been growing exponentially more fond of large, interesting patterns and multicolored garments of late, and this is just interesting without being obnoxious about it. The Fug Girls referenced this as being kind of art deco-inspired, which I agree with. They also called out the confusing choker-or-not thing, which I also am perplexed by but kind of enjoy.

Nicole Richie, doing her usual thing in Marc Jacobs. I aspire to be able to pull of her retro styling, but I don't know - it's so effortless and perfect on her. Also, shiny.

Also file under: Shiny. Marion Cotillard, in Dior (duh). Looking resplendent as always.

And, finally, the ball gowns. I've been trying to lay off the ball gowns for like a decade now, it's not working out.

Camilla Belle, in (and with) Jason Wu. She was one of the very few people who wore a color as opposed to "metallic," "shimmer" or, you know, black or navy, this year.

Jennifer Lopez in Zuhair Murad. This reminds me at a glance of the purple Nina Ricci that Bee Schaffer wore a couple years back ... I need to look that up, because if I recall it was basically the be-all end-all of ball gowns.

Anne Hathaway, who might be pissed that as totally great as she looks, JLo up there just did basically the same thing but a bit cooler. Anyway. Very princess-like Valentino.

And the biggest disappointment (for me):

Blake Lively, in Marchesa. I was so pumped when I read that Marchesa would be dressing Blake - Marchesa is one of my favorite designers, primarily for their combination of architecture and romance. I'm generally not a fan of Blake's styling at formal events, because, while she is clearly ridiculously beautiful, for whatever reason she and her stylist are completely unable to understand that just because she has both the greatest boobs and legs (bitch) walking the carpets these days, they don't need to illustrate both facts so ... obviously, all the time.

Also I'm bitter because I covet her goddess hair, and she's always slicking it back into a weird, severe ponytail for these things.

And ... here we are. Tits and thigh and a ponytail. Sigh. As for the dress ... I definitely don't love it. I don't know if I hate it. The color is bold and enjoyable, the kind of sea-urchins-crawling-all- over-it theme is a bit perplexing but not exactly unpleasant ... maybe it would work on someone like that insufferable girl from "Glee?"

Anyway. Last dress post of the month, swear.

On the ledge.

2010-05-06T16:44:00.000-07:00

Talk me out of it. I'm not supposed to be spending money this year.

(Anthropologie)

"Talk me out of it" can be translated both literally and as "buy it for me, please."

I'm acting a little Cape Cod these days.

2010-05-04T19:34:00.000-07:00

My new hat, from J.Crew.

Kim: "This weekend I bought a Panama hat. I wore it to the beach on Sunday, with Top-siders, a seersucker button down and shorts. I felt like ..."
Co-worker: "A stereotype?"
Kim: "... awesome. And, yes."

Thoughts on the Panama hat trend this season? So far, I find wearing mine a little intimidating, if I'm being perfectly honest. I feel like a poseur, kinda. But also awesome.

Here is a photo of Pacey at the Met Ball.

2010-05-03T16:55:00.000-07:00

You're welcome.

(via Just Jared)

Hi, I'm Sarah, Inconvenient Feminist

2010-04-25T16:10:00.000-07:00

Catcalling is kind of annoying, right?

I mean, when some frat boy is hanging out the window of a moving vehicle whistling at you, it is a bit perplexing: Really, what is the point? Is it expected that if they try this time enough, some poor slut is actually going to chase a car down the street and demand the honor of blowing one of these idiots? Or that if a team of construction workers starts up a chorus of kissy noises and begins calling some woman just trying to get to work any variation of "Baby/Mami/Sexy," she's going to pause in her travels to invite one to drinks and fucking? Probably not.

But I've never really seen the point in engaging catcallers. I've had friends who prefer the route of yelling back at them, informing them (as if they didn't know) that women aren't going to go for that, but, to me it just seems moot. The resulting argument will always be the same (women ask for it with the way they dress, cultural beauty standards make us all more insane than we already were, etc. etc. etc.) and I've always just taken the stance that it's an equal opportunity world and I'll just counter your double standards with my own.

I wouldn't exactly say it's fighting misogyny with misandry or anything, because hi, I LOVE men, and I'm fairly certain most men LOVE women, and we'd all totally cease to exist or at the very least be super bored without one another, so, we're all good, us opposing sexes. I just mean that, while I might get pretty worked up about hot-button feminist issues like a woman's right to choose, or Bella Swan, for the most part I just kind of accept that I'm still getting paid $0.70 to every dick's $1.00.

But that means that on a first date, while I might do the wallet reach out of politeness, I sure as fuck don't mean it and if you ain't paying, you ain't getting any, buddy. Equal opportunity. See? Also, you will always be the default spider-killer, so you better get over any phobia right now.

So yes. I don't find catcalling to be gigantically offensive, or really anything more than mildly distracting. At times, like on a fat day or a bad hair day, it can even be a little flattering, right? But I don't respond to it.

Except when I have to.

Because I am trapped by a gas pump.

Scene: It is early Saturday evening, dusk-ish. I am wearing a purple maxi dress with Havaianas, which means the hem is on the ground and I look like a child in a nightgown. I am also wearing what an ex calls "face protector" sunglasses, meaning you can't see much but my chin. I have just finished watching "Hot Tub Time Machine" (which was startlingly hilarious, with only a few cringe-worthy cheap toilet humor moments) and am blissfully planning my future relationship with Sebastian Stan while I put gas in my car.

From behind me comes a whistle. I pay no attention.

It comes again. I glance around: The gas pumps, save the one I am using, are all vacant, but the street behind me is a major one and heavy with traffic. I decide the whistle is nothing.

The whistle comes a third time, and I see a white SUV, model indiscernible to me because it is not a Range Rover or a Jeep Grand Cherokee, which are the only types of vehicle I can assuredly identify without reading the name. Because I grew up on the Cape, see, and it's weird when people have SUVs other than those.

"Excuse me!" A voice calls from the SUV. I decide this is also nothing, because when taking into consideration the literal translations of "excuse me," they do not apply, as I am not in anyone's way and it is not tourist season so surely someone cannot be lost.

Another whistle. I accidentally turn my head slightly in its direction.

"Yes! You! Excuse me!" It's some dude, indiscernible to me because he is not Sebastian Stan. I am vaguely annoyed to note that I am using the slowest gas pump in the universe, and have only just passed the 3-gallon mark.

"Yeah?" I reply flatly, returning my head to its previous not-quite-looking-but-kinda-aimed-in-his-direction position.

Not Sebastian Stan: "Hi."

Kim: "Um, hi."

NSS: "Hi."

Kim: "Were you ... whistling for my attention?"

NSS: "Yeah. Hi."

Kim: "Like I was a dog?"

NSS: "No! To say hi."

Kim: "Right. Hi."

I turn my head away and go to remove the gas pump, only to realize I have set the clip to fill the tank. This is something I have never, ever known how to do, so I most certainly don't know how to undo it. I press No on the keypad. This does not do anything.

NSS: "Hey!"

Kim: "What."

NSS: "Do you live around here?"

Kim: "No." The lie is so automatic that I immediately feel bad about it. One thing that annoys me about women, myself included, is their tendency to bemoan their single status as if there were never any men making an effort. For this reason, when he asks me where I live, I reply Boston as opposed to New York. It's not as big a lie, is my justification.

NSS: "Well, I will just have to visit you then!" He says this with an overly-confident upward nod of his head and a creepy lip pursing that is overly reminiscent of a kissy face.

I have a change of heart about my change of heart and turn back to the keypad on the gas pump. Enter also does nothing. We are now at 9 gallons. I begin uselessly poking at the pump itself.

Kim: "I don't think I invited you."

NSS: "You're funny. What's your name?"

Kim: "Sarah." I laugh to myself at this immediate utterance of one of my signature Drunken Code Names from college. What really is the point of this practice, ladies? It's not like a fake first name will derail any deviousness that might be taking place.

NSS: "I'm Anthony. Do you have a boyfriend, Sarah?"

Kim: "Sebastian Stan."

NSS: "Huh?"

Kim: "Yes. I do."

NSS: "Your boyfriend's name is Sebastian? Sebastian and Sarah?"

This makes me irrationally annoyed, because, first of all, that is my Movie Star Boyfriend and my Drunken Code Name he is mocking, and second of all, Sebastian is far and away a better name than Anthony.

I turn all the way around to face him, previously dormant feminist rage bubbling.

Kim: "You know. If you were actually going to talk to me, you shouldn't have whistled first. Especially not repeatedly."

Anthony (who is still definitely not Sebastian Stan): "Huh?"

The pump clicks, indicating my tank is full. I replace the pump and press No for a receipt and turn back, flinging the driver's side door open all pissily as I do.

Kim: "You whistled. Like a catcall. And then tried to pick me up."

Anthony(NSS): "So?"

Kim: "Well ... it doesn't work that way!"

Anthony(NSS): "You're paying attention to me, aren't you? Can I have your phone number?"

Kim: "I'm not inviting you over, though. To Boston. Where I live with my boyfriend. And no!" I was going for smug, but I think it came out more shrieky in the end.

Anthony(NSS): "Win some, lose some. Nice to meet you, Sarah."

He drives away, and I gape after him, completely dumbfounded.

24 hours later I somehow feel ... foiled. Damn feminism.

Did I mention I'm never having children?

2010-04-21T14:03:00.000-07:00

Because I'd rather have lots of expensive shoes.

MINE.

Spending Freeze '10 is proceeding diligently along the path of HAHAHAYEAHRIGHT.

Retail therapy continues to soar to new heights for me.

I'm wearing them to work. And Trader Joe's. And ... everywhere. They'll make me as tall as a medium-height boy (or a short boy, calling himself 5'9," because that's what all the short boys do).

I have been too lazy to write a real post for weeks now.

2010-04-16T15:18:00.000-07:00

And ... that hasn't changed yet.

The excuse I'm presently using is that in a few short months, I'll have to basically entirely abandon my vague pretense of being a bored, lazy lady-who-lunches (um, when I'm not working, that is) on the Cape and return to my previously scheduled life of staggering around in seasons-old designer shoes that I've had re-heeled times enough that the cobbler does that skeptical eyebrow thing when he sees me coming, changing "careers" every 6-12 months depending basically on who will hire me for marginally more than my last job, and only drinking when the tab is someone else's because my salary really just affords my apartment. In other words, I fully anticipate regressing fully to my 23-year-old self when I move, and 23 was amazing, but 23 was also hard as hell.

So right now, I'm going to relish lying around in a satin sheet reading more Philippa Gregory crap and drinking entire pots of coffee while I wait for it to be time to put on a cocktail dress and have someone else buy me dinner.

I can justify anything.

Anyway, here are some photos (just lousy Blackberry ones, because I still have yet to settle on a new camera) to sum up my life of late:

Statement baubles! But only one at a time, i.e. these are not both my arm, if that was somehow not apparent.

The Lady Gaga lipstick! A statement bauble in itself. Here I'm wearing it to watch a movie. Um, by myself. Likely one with Cillian Murphy in it, as that's all I tend to watch lately. When I stumble upon obsessions, I commit.

The Hate Doll I made at work Friday morning. Pablo. So yeah, work's going well. But the clip head is gloriously inspired, if I do say so myself.

Clearly I'm leading the glamorous life (disclosure: I'm actually having a great time, despite the evidence's relatively mundane appearance).

The Tudors S4 premiered last night, and was just great.

2010-04-12T17:14:00.000-07:00

So what am I still waiting on to round out my spring/summer TV schedule?

Duh.

Also: Greatest marketing ever.

Also also: One assumes they are referring to Skarsgård, though I do have high hopes for the addition of James Frain (formerly Thomas Cromwell on, yes, the Tudors - OMFGWHENFANDOMSCOLLIDE!!!!11!) who is kind of sexy in a weird old British kind of way.

(I really do have important things to post, but along with my current attention span leveling off around that of a gnat, meh.)

I'm probably going to join Twitter. I think there are kindred spirits to be found there.

2010-04-08T19:59:00.000-07:00

I can't believe you ordered ranch dressing right in front of me. #whitegirlproblems

It's a shame, because the only polish shades I own myself are black and nude and wow that's boring.

2010-04-08T15:00:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, April 9, marks the 4-year anniversary of my departure from New York and my subsequent descent into the series of life failures more gently known as my mid-twenties. More on all that tomorrow, but for now I've been pondering how my life is going to change come summer due to the fact that I'll once again be a Poor masquerading as a princess.

For example, Things I Will No Longer Do Once I Reside In Manhattan Again: Get manicures in ridiculous colors post-work.

Conversely, Things I Will Continue To Do Once I Reside In Manhattan Again: Refuse to upgrade my 5-and-change-year-old Compaq laptop because omg guys, it's fine, okay?

I. Can't. Wait.

I'd join Twitter, but I lose interest in things so quickly. Plus it's ridiculous, right? RIGHT?.

2010-04-07T15:40:00.000-07:00

I look at carbs, and sometimes wonder what they are like...but I can't go down that road again. #whitegirlproblems

(It was 76 degrees today and I realized I'll be packing the cardigans away soon-ish.)

Well, this is tragic.

2010-04-06T11:25:00.000-07:00

I like writing my name on stuff and all, but, seriously? Scrabble, the greatest, most intensely competitive game of all time - even surpassing the likes of Assassin, Celebrity, the original Mario Brothers (and Duck Hunt duh), and Which States Would I Be Okay With Being From Besides Massachusetts -, has been amended for the lazy/illiterate/idiotic?

FAIL is tired, but appropriate.

Scrabble to allow use of proper nouns.

I forgot Easter happened.

2010-04-05T19:58:00.000-07:00

But I did see this on the Vie Society, and I squeaked a little. I love Peeps. Better hit up the candy aisle tomorrow and hope the post-holiday discount bins still have some ...

Peepshi, via Serious Eats.

Clockwatching, currently.

2010-03-31T13:16:00.000-07:00

I'm going on a mini-vacation tomorrow through Monday, because I like to flee during holidays.

Destination: Atlanta! Yay! However, it has recently come to my attention that I am well on my way to being one of those annoying houseguests who shows up in a city with no knowledge of it or any idea of what she would like to experience and relies on her hosts to entertain her.

I meant to read up, but I got busy, or drunk, or something.

Anyone have any suggestions? Preferably ones that would allow for the fact that I'll most likely be dressed up like Scarlett O'Hara (with a Lady Gaga twist, because I got that insane cool-tone pink lipstick and I need to wear it sometime) and speaking in a ridiculous Southern accent pretty much the entire time?

Got some new tights, played with my cat.

2010-03-29T20:28:00.000-07:00

This is how it goes. Wore 'em anyway. Runaways-style ;)

Tonight I had 6 drinks and went to see "Remember Me" ...

2010-03-26T21:24:00.000-07:00

and oh man, they really weren't kidding about how polarizing it is, eh?

You're probably thinking the dolphins sound like a screaming kid dying.

2010-03-25T14:34:00.000-07:00

This morning I had one of those weird trigger-effect moments, the kind where an entirely unrelated event recalls something so strongly that you obsess over the past event to the point that you have to take the entire office and Internet down with you. Not déjà vu. Another thing.

I was talking with a co-worker about seeing my cat's doppelgänger (going by the amazing name of "Mr. Peanut") in one of those heartstring-yanking animal shelter notices in the newspaper. We carried on with this mundane conversation for far longer than necessary, as it was the kind of Thursday where all you can contemplate doing at work is prolonging the time you're spending on anything other than actually doing work, and one or the other of us said something dumb like, "the newspaper should really just let people decorate its pages with pictures of their pets, and explanations about how their pet is the best pet, cause, people would totally do that, and like it, and that would be good."

And thus, at the innocent words "the best pet," I was reduced to an entirely unintelligible, babbling, laughing-to-the-point-of-crying mess as I frantically searched the Internet and repeatedly insisted my co-worker "hush" while I found something very important and certain to make everyone's morning far, far better.

I found it. (You would not believe how many Web sites there are dedicated to mocking the newspaper/city I left New York for!)

Background: During the summer of 2006, which was the sick, sad summer I left New York City to do Important Print Journalist Things in the shittiest city in Massachusetts (this was not on Cape Cod), I was working as the city editor and a page designer at a newspaper.

The following is the SECOND-PLACE AWARDED essay of an elementary student who entered said newspaper's county-wide contest that asked these children to write about the most influential person in their lives. Please keep in mind that the selection of winning essays was an honor belonging entirely to the batshit insane editor-in-chief, and I had nothing to do with it.

(But I will never, ever, ever forget the news editor's yell of shock/amusement/glee/disbelief the night he was given the duty of editing the entries for copy and came across this essay, nor my first time hearing it, read aloud by someone with legit tears of laughter in his eyes.)

By [REDACTED] of [REDACTED] Elementary School

Think of the most important person in your life? Does that person make the green grass? Mine does. His name is the Holy Lord, God for short, he made me and the wonderful you. No offense, but if you want to live on Mars, Jupiter, or Pluto, forget it, God made this planet just for us. Mars, Jupiter, and Pluto don’t have the wonderful stuff on this earth. But if you don’t want to be on this planet, you’re most likely saying to yourself, "Hello God, are you there? It’s me. Why did you put me on this planet? I’d rather be dust!"

Now, would you rather be dust or live a good life going to baseball games, going to the mall, and having the best pet. Now I could go on and on, but God put you in this planet for a very good reason. It’s because he loves you and if you’re the person I hope you are, you will love him too.

Oh no, that’s not the end. Do you like going to the beach? If you don’t, you’re probably thinking that the birds sound like a broken tuba, the dolphins sound like a screaming kid dying, and the whales don’t sound like a peaceful "hmm." They sound like they’re trying to push each other with the sound of "hmmp". If you like the ocean, guess who made it. You’re right, God. God made the birds to sing for us. He also made the dolphins laugh, and the whales too. God made them all peaceful. He didn’t make them so when you go scuba diving and see a whale, you scream and jump out of your pants. Let’s leave the ocean part now.

If you have something wrong with you, God most likely did it for a reason. If God did do it for a reason, it doesn’t mean should say "See you later God. I’m going to live life my way." I can go on and on about what God made. But I think it’s time for you to think about God.

Second place, folks. Second place.

Remember, if there is something wrong with you, God most likely did it for a reason.

P.S. You're welcome.

No money, mo problems.

2010-03-22T13:03:00.000-07:00

Jesus christ I am hemorrhaging money this month.

Gilt Groupe, I might need to quit you.

My weekend, which began following my last post,

2010-03-21T12:52:00.001-07:00

was perfect.

AND I had a liquid lunch TOO!

2010-03-19T11:37:00.000-07:00

Due to a stroke of what is most certainly not Kim Luck, the power in my office building was knocked out (likely due to a car accident, hopefully not a serious one) and we were sent home at 2! So, I'm going to spend my 66-degree Friday afternoon with a little spiked iced coffee and a book at the beach.

Happy weekend!

I will returned to my previously scheduled posts detailing the trials of having Kim Luck shortly...

2010-03-15T16:06:00.000-07:00

But for now, what's on my mind is this:

I want this pretty desperately; however, I am curious to know - would it look:

A.) Take me to your captain, that is ADORABLE!
B.) Like I am attempting to strangle myself with a dock rope.
C.) Both A and B, and that's awesome because I would be adorable strangling myself with a dock rope!
D.) Both A and B, and that's problematic because I likely will wind up accidentally strangling myself if I start decorating my neck with dock ropes.

?

(Get it here, at Anthropologie)

My favorite stuff from Paris this year. Linkety link.

2010-03-12T14:46:00.000-08:00

Beautiful silhouettes and the most amazing gowns at Louis Vuitton.

Lots of lace and sequins at Elie Saab. The gowns were almost gothic, and stunning.

Christian Dior = Victorian, romantic, equestrian. My five favorite words, basically.

I assume you have already seen the Chanel icebergs?

Lots of navy at Celine.

As always, Valentino makes me sad I look kinda bad in red.

Spending Freeze 2010 is SO dead in the water.

2010-03-11T20:08:00.001-08:00

I really, really want these pumps for spring (they do not cost $1,000.00):

A friend recently purchased them (I think in black) and linked them on Facebook, and I've since spent the better part of this week trying valiantly to convince myself that I don't realllllly want them.

But, I haven't stopped thinking about them, at all, really, and I've basically planned my spring wardrobe around them. So I guess the only question now is ... do I go for the neutral, classic tan pictured above, #1 for matching anything and everything as well as creating the illusion of longer legs, or the very pretty and springlike ash grey, as seen here on Banana Republic's site?

YOU GUYS YOU GUYS!!!11!

2010-03-10T20:09:00.000-08:00

YOU GUYS I AM WATCHING 3 NINJAS AND OMG YOU GUYS.

Rocky was my first for real crush EVAR. This movie is from 1992. Meaning I was like, 10. OMG YOU GUYS.

It's still good, 17 years later.

17 YEARS LATER OMG YOU GUYS 17 YEARS.

In honor of the return of Gossip Girl, here is something amazing.

2010-03-08T16:56:00.000-08:00

In case you're not on top of this gem of a news story, apparently some third-graders in DC got 90 problems and a bitch is, uh, all of them:

I'm definitely a #2 (thanks, mom), #5, #6, #17, #21, #26 (amazing), occasionally #27 (I like to do the pointed blink in the face of idiocy), #29, #33 (hello! vulgar! you are 8-year-olds!), #89, and, I am going to say #79 simply because nothing has ever sounded cooler than "triflin' bitch" for some reason. I also can only assume I am bitch types #44-58, which are so unfortunately missing.

What kind of bitch are you?

Also ... SO MANY QUESTIONS. "Coast-signing bitches"? "Wearing shoes that be talking bitches"?! Can I get a translator?

Originally posted here.

In which I like dresses not of colors.

2010-03-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

I never made it to the Oscars party of my previous post, as I was busy having a shockingly awesome weekend during which I: Saw almost all of my favorite friends at some point, wore a neat dress, tried bubblegum vodka (insane, perplexing, not unenjoyable), ran on the beach in spring-like weather, saw Alice in Wonderland (awesome), had a great omelet but two awful Bloody Marys (the second one was free) at the very wonderful Geoffrey's Cafe, and found myself in an Old Navy impulse purchasing an adorable stripey sweater that reminds me of being 16 and that I will be returning.

Obviously the Oscars went on without me, and people dressed up, though kind of underwhelmingly so in my opinion.

But, here are the dresses I liked, from the sea of not-so-much that seemed to make up the night, fashion-wise.

#1: Demi Moore in Atelier Versace. Everything about this is lovely, and damnnnnn she's skinny and perfect.

#2: Cameron Diaz in Oscar de la Renta (not particularly digging that hair/makeup with this gorgeous dress/on her at all, though)

#3: Sandra Bullock in Marchesa. Pictures aren't doing this thing justice; I was convinced it was just okay, and then I saw video of it in motion and it's stunning.

Also liked quite a lot: Anna Kendrick in Elie Saab Haute Couture.

Liking more and more every time I look at it: Amanda Seyfried in Armani Prive. This dress continues to grow on me. I like the architecture, and she is apparently now the prettiest person ever, so, that's impressive.

I am not sure if I really like this or if it's just for the color: Penelope Cruz in Donna Karan Couture. This color is amazing, and she also might be the prettiest person in the world, and I think I love this dress altogether, but, not sure.

I was also at least interested in what Maggie Gyllenhaal, Rachel McAdams and Sigourney Weaver (mostly just because she is 60 and damn) wore, if not totally won over.

Ahem.

2010-03-02T16:30:00.000-08:00

Last night I bought my first pair of $1,000.00 shoes.

Spending Freeze 2010 is definitely going to need a do-over.

That's all.

(I didn't pay $1,000.00 for them.)

It's so nice when hipsters invite me to do things with them.

2010-03-01T14:28:00.000-08:00

I received a Facebook event invite from one of my awesome former roommates today, and four hours later I am pretty sure I have discerned that it is to one of those watch-the-Oscars-in-an-Oscar-kinda-outfit parties generally favored by out-of-work actors and lower-half-of-the-totem-pole entertainment industry workers. Those types, and the type who invited me, who are hipster social media types who are like a thousand percent cooler than I am.

I have also discerned that this party is to be held at an actual bar.

You'll have to forgive my triumph at these discoveries. The thing is, as you may have noticed, I am not exactly cool. I mean, I can extemporize a keynote on the quality of Lanvin v. Repetto flats and probably shock you with my unexpectedly formidable knowledge of sports and I made a super funny Ides of March joke today, but ... yeah, um, I made a super funny Ides of March joke today. I'm not cool. Thus, pop culture tends to fly right over my head. I hate Animal Collective, and Chuck Taylors in anything other than navy or off-white make me fly into fits of rage. I think sarcasm is hilarious but irony is exhausted, and I'm pretty sure my favorite movie (after Casablanca because duh) might be The Chronicles of Narnia. You know what I hate? Tumblr. WOW do I hate Tumblr, and I don't even have a reason at all for that because it seems just fine, really.

Anyway, so the point of this, besides aimless ramblings about myself as usual, is: The event is entitled "1st Annual #OscarUP Tweetup," and when I read this I almost cried from panic because what the hell does that mean???

"There is a pound sign in my party invitation!" I announced frantically to my co-worker Katie (who reads here, so I'm assuming she will tell me if she would prefer a code name -- Katie, do you want a code name?). "Like in a twitter. A twit. Tweet. What does that mean? Tweetup! Like, meetup, but tweetup?! Is this ... a virtual party? I don't twitter. Twit. Tweet. TWEETUP! What IS THIS?"

Katie, who found my wildly hilarious Ides of March joke wildly hilarious, agreed with me that this was perplexing. Of course.

"And," I continued. "It is to be held at 'Prohibited at Symphony 8.' WHAT IS THAT?"

Well, as I mentioned, my research has unearthed some important facts: 1) The party is in fact taking place in life, not Twitter; and 2.) Prohibited is apparently Boston's first modern speakeasy.

And it looks equal parts awesome and annoying!

Thoughts:

-The password thing both intrigues and terrifies me. Intrigues because, elitism! YAY! Terrifies because, where do I get it?! What if I don't get in? Oh god, flashbacks to that one time at Marquee (LULZ Marquee).

-A bar in Boston that prohibits baseball caps? Oh thank you sweet baby jesus. However, the encouragement of porkpie hats ... mehhhhh.

-No bombs! Excellent! Jagerbombs and carbombs are right up there with beirut tables and sawdust on the ground for me. Which is to say, I am not in college anymore. Please no.

-Um, I have exactly NO idea what #10 means. At all. Help?

-Finally, okay, so the '20s thing is kind of played out. And by kind of I mean, completely, totally, 100%, where ya been, hipsters? First Chuck Bass on GG this season, now this. I rocked my flapper look (meaning, primarily, fire engine red lips, shifts and weird headbands)* hardest in '07-'08, and my favorite Boston (okay, Cambridge) bar has been Cuchi Cuchi for years.

*For example:

This is what I looked like at a friend's nuptials in 2008. The dress was a black shift, and I was not wearing fishnets - though, had it not been 7,000 degrees that day, I may have. Also, on the right side of my head (not pictured) is a fascinator-style giant flower of black and white pearls. Granted, this was a green card wedding, so dress code of conduct was nonexistent, but still.

Okay, this is a costume. 1920s was the theme of another friend's birthday (also in '08). The "bathtub gin" photoshoot was my idea. See? Wildly hilarious. Not cool. Did I mention we later did venture out in public? And my dress was underwear, if that's not apparent. A slip, that I'm only pretty sure covered my ass.

Obviously, I am totally going to the party. In a red carpet-worthy outfit. Will report back.

Be still my heart.

2010-02-24T19:55:00.000-08:00

I would sell vital organs (not mine, obviously, because what good would the subject of this post do on a corpse?) or small children (definitely not mine, because they're never going to exist) for Burberry's Fall 2010 collection from London Fashion Week.

At first I was just digging all the boots and jackets but slightly off-put by all the, how do I say, puke-tones? I like neutrals as much as the next person, but vomit, not so much. But then came all the navy, and the jewel tones, and I totally needed a change of underwear (too crude?).

I'm a sucker for over-the-knee boots (when they're worn properly and not hooker-ly) despite the fact that I will never, ever be able to wear them as I am, sadly, 5'3", and so do not have legs for days and sure don't need to make myself look any shorter. This look (or its brighter blue counterpart) is the one I'm sporting in all my dreams where I'm a sexy British spy on a boat (oh, act like you don't have those):

The collection was basically a study in Boot Lust, and I'm grateful there were some I could both drool over and conceivably wear without looking ridiculous:

Hi, I would wear those with EVERYTHING AND ANYTHING. Also, a shorter version, with one of my favorite looks of the collection:

I don't even know what that coat is - Muppet, possibly - but I WANT it.

I want it all. Gorgeous.

Team Siobhan!

2010-02-23T14:00:00.000-08:00

I feel the need to precede this post with the disclaimer that, in case it wasn't clear, I'm kind of a giant snob most of the time.

One of my favorite excuses-I-call- reasons for this is that I'm from New England, and more specifically Massachusetts, and more specifically the Cape. As you may be aware, people from these areas tend to be the following:

1.) Mean and awful (although they -uh, we - prefer the term "aloof")
2.) Highly educated (a good thing!) and entirely pretentious about it (allegedly a bad thing)
3.) Rabidly sports-obsessed and prone to faking a very annoying, blue-collar accent that is actually only indigenous to like 9 square miles of one city (this doesn't really factor into anything I'm disclaiming or about to say, but, it must be said all the same)

See? Total bitch by birthright. A friend (also a Mass native) and I once played a car game we called "Which States Would I Be Okay With Being From Besides Massachusetts" and, not only did we refuse to even include all the New England states (sorry, Maine and Vermont - and even you, Home of My Alma Mater New Hampshire, had heavy amendments required) but we literally were only barely able to eke out seven or something, and with explicit rules about proximity to coastlines and horseback riding style implemented.

So basically, I'm probably about to insult your home state. Sorry. Here we go!

* * * * *

Last year I accidentally tuned into American Idol, and however many weeks later found myself with at least 10 years shaved off my life due to stress, hoarse from shrieking in disbelief, and utterly reaffirmed of mind that most Americans are tasteless morons with idiotic priorities never more evidenced than by the popularity of this glorified karaoke competition.

Clearly, I was an Adam Lambert fan.

I'm actually still pissed he lost, primarily because in 27 years of life I have never quite grasped the concept that not everyone is going to like the things I like. No, really. Does not compute.

Anyway, there was supposed to be no way I was going to watch this dumb show again. No way, no how. I was way too good/cool/musically tasteful/smart/not from a ridiculous state where they put Ranch dressing on everything and get married and have blobs at 21 on purpose and stuff.

So, obviously a girl from my hometown made the Top 24 last week.

This resulted in a sort of gauntlet-running of reactions.

At first, I was like, "Oh, that's neat. Good for her!"

Then I was like, "I suppose I can become a fan on Facebook, like everyone else who went to my high school has been doing all week, thanks Newsfeed."

Then I found myself having conversations like, "So which Magnus graduated in YOUR class? Because my tie to this lovely, talented family is [insert story here]."

And today, as I was leaving work, I found myself running back up the steps and into my office to order my co-workers to tune in and vote for her.

AND NOW I AM ALL NERVOUS! ALREADY. LIKE I AM WAITING FOR THIS STUPID SHOW TO COME ON, AND I WILL WATCH IT WHILE CLINGING TO MY PHONE WAITING FOR HER NUMBER.

See, here is the thing. People from the Cape have insane amounts of hometown pride, but it is much less of the "Hi, world! Look at my beautiful home! Come see! I will take you on a walking tour of the National Seashore, please do not disturb the Piping Plovers" kind of pride, and much more of the "EW GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT, WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN COME HERE AND ATTEMPT TO NAVIGATE A ROTARY LIKE THAT!" kind of pride.

And if you don't know what Figawi is, YOU DON'T DESERVE TO KNOW.

Cape people are also notorious for staring down anyone who claims to have a "Cape house" and demanding to know which town it's in, because BISH PLZ, PLYMOUTH/CARVER DOES NOT COUNT AND WAREHAM COUNTS EVEN LESS. QUINCY GTFO.

Also, that Vampire Weekend song? With the zombies? Pisses us right off, because, Ira, darling: You don't get "out" of Cape Cod, you get "off" of Cape Cod. I MEAN DUH.

So, right. Hometown pride, it's there. BUT.

It is not like ... Real American Hometown Pride. Like in, say, one of the Ranch states like Missouri or Illinois or something. Or Texas, which, I've had a good time or two in Austin like everyone else, but dear god, is Texas a weird effing state. Also, anything in the Bible belt. I mean, those people, as one of my co-workers noted so correctly today, enjoy getting together to hang out in a gym and vote for television show contestants. And they make signs. SIGNS! People, this is American Idol, not the Boston Marathon!

People do not congregate in gyms to watch TV, here. For one, there is this veneer of utter cool that must be kept up. We do not like American Idol! It is so mainstream! There are like 749 colleges and universities here, indie or BUST. For another, people do not like other people, here. Certainly not enough to hang out in a gym together for a common good! So basically, I fear that our hometown girl may be doomed.

She is also likely doomed because, like Adam Lambert, she is way, way too interesting and good to win this show.

BUT OMG YOU ALL NEED TO VOTE FOR HER ANYWAY.

Siobhan Magnus (come on, act like you don't love her for her name alone - people are obsessed with being Irish, this does not escape my notice)

(And if not for her, for goodness sake, vote for the OTHER girl from Mass, at least. HAHA! WE HAVE TWO, SUCK IT OTHER STATES. Okay, so Weird Texas has like 12. No big deal.)

UPDATE: Hilariously, as has been pointed out to me, the AI site lists Siobhan (and my) hometown as "Marnstable, MA." Um, it's Barnstable. Twinned with Barnstaple, England, thanks very much! But whatever works. If you're not from here, you can be from Notstable, which is JUST AWESOME, come on.

My Favorite Things That Happened At NYFW

2010-02-18T18:28:00.000-08:00

So, the last year of the tents at Bryant Park has come to an end. I started off slightly unimpressed, but got over that.

Very British (in the good way) at Ralph Lauren - my favorite, aside from the countrymouse floral dresses

Dear LORD Michael Kors with the stunning furs (can I get those faux?), though, no thanks on the cashmere sweatpants

Utter perfection at DVF, complete and utter

Very Gossip Girl Season 1 (a bit too distracting with the tights) at Milly - but I kind of love it all anyway because duh

Caroline Herrera has elbow-length gloves and hats - SOLD

I had mixed feelings on Proenza Schouler (though I loved the color palette), was surprisingly underwhelmed by Marchesa (although I can never be all the way disappointed) and think I've decided I just do not like Rodarte, ever.

I want to go shopping SO BAD.

Blood and guts and confectioner's sugar.

2010-02-16T15:59:00.000-08:00

In this moment, I have zero (0) fully functional thumbs.

This issue was born this weekend when, one lovely moment I was out to dinner enjoying a perfectly cooked (read: practically raw, because that's how I roll) filet mignon, and the next I was gazing in dismay as the blood that was gushing furiously from my right thumb mixed into the red juices on my plate.

Sorry, you weren't eating, were you?

Of course, this resulted in not just my companions but the patrons at the neighboring table as well all leaping to my aid and attempting to fashion tourniquets out of cloth napkins while our ashen-faced server wrung her hands nervously and flitted about trying to appease me with molten chocolate cake (wait, this was my own fault though ... I mean, yes, thank you).

20 or so minutes of bleeding later, I was able to convince my company that a trip to the emergency room was not necessary by triumphantly displaying the extremely shallow, tiny cut on my thumb, bleeding all but stopped.

"I don't think I need stitches, see," I explained.

"ALL THAT BLOOD came from THAT?!" Was their response.

I'm anemic, of course, but I stopped taking my iron pills 6 years ago and decided to go the route of just eating lots of red meat. This is generally successful, except for occasions when I bleed all over my steak before I consume it.

One SpongeBob (I don't ask questions) band-aid from a friend's purse later, and I was all set.

Cut to late last night.

Apparently, the 47 cherry cordial Hershey's kisses and Cadbury mini eggs I consumed at work were not satisfactory to my sugar cravings of late, because around the time I should have been asleep I was pacing the length of the kitchen and throwing cabinets open in search of anything chocolate, until I finally remembered: BUTTERCREAM FROSTING.

I have never been a huge frosting-from-the-can eater. Raw cookie dough, definitely. Frosting off a spoon, not so much.

Recently, though, I made some cupcakes and brought them to work. About half of them had homemade peanut butter frosting (making frosting is kind of a thing with me when I bake) and the other half had Betty Crocker buttercream from a can.

Within milliseconds, each of my co-workers was talking around mouthfuls of buttercream. Apparently I have been missing something and frosting-from-the-can is the way to go.

With this memory fresh in my mind, I was basically overjoyed at the realization that more than half the can was still leftover. I really think there must be something up with my bc (you know, not the college and not Before Christ) or something, because I almost drooled and full-on sprinted to the fridge.

I then, and perhaps I was a bit overzealous, yanked at the cover to the frosting like it was Excalibur, immediately shrieked in pain so loudly that my kitten jumped, and watched in dismay as, I kid you not, a smattering of little blood dots sprinkled across the counter.

I waited a moment, and then looked down to see if my left thumb had, in fact, been severed across the top by an offending red plastic frosting can cover.

Too much blood to tell.

So, I ran it under the faucet (pink waterfall!) and then wrapped it up in about 40 paper towels and waited to see if I passed out from blood loss.

20 minutes later, a hesitant peek beneath my ghetto bandaging revealed:

AN EVEN SMALLER CUT.

I now have band-aids (both regular, SpongeBob fell off after a few hours) on both thumbs.

Things that are hard with band-aids on both thumbs:

1.) Not getting the sticky part of them stuck to my hair
2.) Texting
3.) Shaving my legs
4.) Using knives and opening cans of frosting
5.) Looking like a grown up at work

On the up side, these events probably saved me 3,000 calories.

Happy Monday! Have a drink, and my hair.

2010-02-15T16:34:00.000-08:00

I got my hair done this weekend.

I do so every six weeks, currently. It's admittedly my biggest indulgence and vanity, and I'm okay with that. Trashy magazines, cappuccino and someone else washing your hair = a really, really great way to spend a couple of hours after a stupid week.

Seeing as my hair right now is extra fantastic and heat-styled and shiny, you know, like I just stepped out! of! a! salon! (who did those commercials?), And, since this self-described "Good Hair" of mine is half my blog's title and maybe a bit less than half its point, I figured I should have photos of it sometimes, or, uh, stories about it, or something.

But, my camera has been on the blitz since July (I'll need to remedy that soon) and I can't take a decent photo of anything but my kitten with my Blackberry, so, for now here is what I normally look like (cardigan, ponytail, lots of teeth, giant cocktail) because while my hair is quite awesome in my avatar (I LOVE being a dark brunette, but it's a lot of keep up, not to mention constant effort not to come across a little goth-styled, for me), it's actually about 12 shades lighter currently and in general.

Imagine this a little lighter and longer and currently shampoo-commercial bouncy, and that would have been my Hair Glamour Shot.

Photo taken somewhere in the cornfields if IL while visiting my
sister at vet school over Thanksgiving.

The following is an essay that references a vampire theme. Proceed or skip at your own will.

2010-02-12T16:00:00.000-08:00

Ahem. Hello, my name is Kim, and I watch The Vampire Diaries ...

Scratch that.

You know what? I am not ashamed of this. Idiotic title (and probably assuredly terrible book predecessor) aside, I'm going to have to say that it is currently the best show I watch. *

Some might choose to make the case that I only watch 5.5 television shows and they are all questionable at best and often disclaimed with the absurdly stupid "guilty pleasure" descriptive (Gossip Girl - dramatic teen cheese, also see exhibit: Vampire Diaries, The; The Tudors - overwrought, over-acted, historically inaccurate porn for prudes; True Blood - vampire porn for prudes; Top Chef - reality TV, always suspect; and Project Runway counting as the half because, I'm holding on but good lord has it gotten dull in recent seasons).

But you know what? It's incredibly well-executed (the pacing is phenomenal) and acted, features complex characters (including a strong female lead! No Bella Swan here thanks) and engaging B and C plots in addition to the utter delicious crack cocaine that are the A plots.

Last night it made me cry 1.5 times. Cry! FROM TV! WHO DOES THIS?

And, of course, it airs on the CW, which means it stars impossibly attractive twenty-somethings as teenagers (well, and hundreds-years-old vampires), including the painfully gorgeous Ian Somerhalder, whom I bumped (literally, obviously) into once at Cipriani (Le Specialità, don't get too excited) like five years ago and basically stunned into silence when I responded to a simple pleasantry with an unbelievable stream of nonsensical chatter that probably included a French phrase or two.

AND THERE ARE COSTUMES.

Here we have Katherine (vampire, not to be confused with Elena - human - who is played by the same actress) with Stefan (human above but present vampire) in one of the show's FANTASTIC Civil War-era flashback scenes that are helping to drive the season's storyline.

You could sell me pretty much anything if you put a corset and white gloves and a bow tie on it, but in all seriousness, the 1864 Katherine scenes are among the show's best, and I have, of course, been growing increasingly obsessed with them for the past month. And, by association, with the Civil War.

Not meaning I'm about to head to the library for some historical chronicles, or watch Glory or anything like that.

More like I'll probably dig out my copy of Gone With the Wind and prance around dramatically, announcing "Sir, you are no gentleman" to whomever happens to be around for a few days.

Also, DEAR GOD DO I WANT SOME DARLING LITTLE HATS NOW. And lace things. AND:

Kim: "I want a cameo necklace. I am switching my accessory inspiration from Renaissance royalty to Civil War debutante, I think. Where can I get one?"**
Jen: "Ha! Maybe a vintage store in rural Georgia before it's pillaged by the historical society for a Founder's Day-themed event?" (This is why she is my best friend)
Kim: "Life was simpler during my flapper phase."

So, in conclusion and as you can see, everyone should watch The Vampire Diaries. And Spending Freeze 2010 continues to go as well as expected.

* At one time in my life I really DID watch a Great, Intelligent and Important Television Show, but thanks to NBC sucking balls and absent viewers like you, it was taken from me and the world far before its time. I don't think I will ever get over it, either, and the loss will forever fuel my fire to babble incessantly about Chuck and Blair, thanks very much. RIP, Kings.

** Cameo necklaces ABOUND on eBay, of course. I really can't believe I am a decade-plus late to that trend (eBay). Sheesh. Also, yes, I know that cameos actually were popularized during the Renaissance ... but I am talking Katherine inspiration, here. And they really are more recognized as a Victorian trend, anyway.

This is a legitimately terrible thing (i.e. Not Kim Luck)

2010-02-11T16:46:00.000-08:00

With NYFW just around the corner, what a devastating loss of true vision and brilliance: RIP, Mr. McQueen

Condolences to his loved ones, and may he find more peace wherever he is now.

Anatomy of a Snow Day

2010-02-10T13:53:00.000-08:00

The Snowpocalypse has (sort of underwhelmingly thus far) descended upon New England and, as tends to be the case once in a while for inexplicable reasons, everyone has decided to act like wintery precipitation is a Very Strange and Terrifying Event.

The panic set in yesterday and as result of all the nervous chatter I ended up rolling into work today at the brutal hour of 6:30 a.m. Not because I was scared of the snow, but because if everyone else was going to leave early then I sure as hell was too. But I needed all my hours for reasons both financial and workload-related, so, I had to wake up while it was still dark out.

This is a feat for me, trust. Always has been. I was an afternoon kindergartener. Every sunrise I can remember witnessing has been due to my not having yet gone to bed, not my rising to meet it. I cannot easily wake up early.

But I did, and obvs that sucked and I was quite snappy and delirious and I had zero makeup on and toothpaste all over my, uh, bodice, and I ate a giant muffin for breakfast for the second day in a row and then felt gross, but then at 2:30 I got to leave.

I considered utilizing this free time to do my taxes and go through my closet, but decided to opt for the following gameplan:

Inexcusably long shower featuring every Lush product I can find in my bathroom, particularly my favorite, the Ocean Salt body scrub pictured above.

Vodka will always be my #1 clear liquor, but sometimes gin is all I want in the world. Tanqueray is my favorite, but I was feeling Sapphire today. I drink it with club soda or soda water (I hate tonic, I know, it's weird, blahblah) or in a martini up with a twist. Or with itself. I'M KIDDING. Maybe I do that with vodka, not gin though, psssht.

I just started watching The Tudors this past fall when Showtime started throwing all three seasons up On Demand, and I became obsessed all kinds of fast and furious. I'm waiting for it to die down, but so far I'm still doing weird things like watching episodes again despite having seen them all (this is not a thing I do, usually). I blame Henry "AREYOUSERIOUSTHEREAREPEOPLETHISFLAWLESS?!" Cavill there.

Don Juan, and my bed. This is my kitten-almost-cat and he is super-psyched I am home early (photo not taken today). He will be partaking in the gin and Sexy Cavill as well, or kitten-approved substitutions of his choice.

SNOW DAYS ARE SO GREAT.

Boots for the club.

2010-02-06T15:28:00.000-08:00

My lip is bleeding, and so I am considering drinking wine through a straw.

***

Backing up: It is Saturday night and I have no plans.

This is an occasional (at least one Saturday night a month) occurrence since living on the Cape, and one that I no longer find strange. Basically, it is bitterly, frigidly cold here in the winter, stuff closes at 11:30, I hate driving and I am a complete snob who is grossed out by townies. So, if I don't have impeccably detailed and outlined plans with my handful of non-gross year-round Cape friends or I am not actually someplace other than the Cape, I am much more likely to be found lounging dramatically on my satin sheets in a Lush face mask reading Philippa Gregory than I am to be hanging out at a bar full of North Face fleeces and Coach handbags and faux Boston accents.

In short, I am a lame old hermit. And sometimes I love it. Anyway.

After noting with glee that my recent Amazon order has me sufficiently covered in the Tudor porn department for at least the rest of the month, I was perusing my beverage collection and noted that I was down to Scotch only. Philippa really demands wine (if I only had a jewel-encrusted goblet), so I grudgingly changed out of the gym clothes I'd been wearing since my early-afternoon jog five hours ago.

By changed out of, I obviously mean I put on a purple lace dress, tights, a beret, red lipstick, and my Balmain buckle (um, inspired) boots. To go to the liquor store.

In hindsight, the boots were really where things began to go wrong.

The remnants of the crazy snowstorm that has closed DC or some such nonsense has made its way up here, and while it's no big deal anymore, it's utterly freezing and the wind appears to be whipping tiny snowflakes in almost cylindrical patterns.

Generally a confident and competent heel-walker, I babystepped in the admittedly challenging and not exactly comfortable near-5-inchers all the way to my stupid car. One near-miss on a patch of black ice saw me shriek and fling my arms out to either side of me, but I did not fall and a helpful neighbor whose porch light blinked on immediately upon my shout seemingly did not find it cause for real concern either, as no one came out to see what the fuss was about and the light when dark a few seconds later. I continued on my way.

The liquor store I went to is across the street from my office, and it was recently determined I frequent it enough to be known by the entire staff.

By which I mean, one day around Christmas I went in with a friend and when it came time to be carded, the attendant declared to my friend, "Oh, we just need yours. We know her." Which was, of course, super, and did not make me doubt my will to live or standing as a healthy, functioning member of society at all.

Tonight said liquor store was quite busy, and after throwing a mini-fit to myself about the shitty parking jobs done by the other patrons, I finally found one and babystepped my way inside.

Where I immediately set off the metal detectors. Walking IN.

"Ha. Um, I swear I didn't steal anything on my way in," I cracked lamely, kind of waving an awkward hello at everyone who was now staring at me and disappearing into the wine racks as staff and townie patrons all burst into way more laughter than was warranted, if you ask me.

I was contemplating a Chilean Malbec v. a Spanish rioja when, from behind me:

"Heeeeeeey."

Oh, excellent.

I turned, warily. The speaker could not have been more than 21, more likely 19 with a fake, and had already had a drink or 12. I offered the close-mouthed smile and nod, a polite kind of greeting-and-dismissal-in-one, and turned back to my wines.

"Is there a party? I like your boots. Did you go to CCA?"

I turned back and offered a slow blink this time. "No."

He laughed. "Which part?"

"Both. And thanks. I'm ... bye." I decided to go with both wines, and headed for the counter.

"Barnstable, then? Do you know [redacted]? There's a party," he joined me on line.

"Thanks, I'm actually ... I've got plans," I tried, intently studying the label of the Malbec.

"Another party? Where? I like your boots." At least the boy had taste.

I smiled again, and gratefully flung my bottles onto the counter as the patron in front of me paid and stepped aside.

"Oh, hey, I got it," the boy announced, stepping up beside me.

"What." I stared at him.

"ID?" the cashier replied doubtfully, raising an eyebrow at me.

"Oh, uh," the boy placed his bottle of Jack beside my wine. "I mean, she's got it."

"WHAT!"

"I still need to see both your IDs," the cashier answered. "Well, not hers. We know her."

"We are not together," I announced. "I do not 'got' his!"

At this point my new friend gaped at me in outrage, then turned and abruptly ran out the door.

"Shit kids," the cashier sighed knowingly. "Are you going to set off the metal detector again?"

"Probably," I replied. "But I am paying, see?"

I set it off. The staff chorused, "Bye!" I stomped purposefully back to my car, enraged at being known at the townie liquor store where drunk teenagers compliment your boots in the hopes of alcoholic favors, and flung the door open.

This was where it became apparent I had parked on top of an iceberg.

Illuminated in the glow of my car's interior light, my legs shot out from under me and my bag of wine was flung to my right as I somehow managed to grab the roof of the car with my right hand and the top of the open door with my left and catch myself before I actually hit the ground, and, I assume, subsequently cracked my head on the ice and slid beneath the car to die.

"WHOA!" A voice spoke up from somewhere to me right as I steadied myself and began looking for my wine. "Are you okay? That was close!"

I turned to look at who was thankfully not the Jack drinker from inside, but a perfectly legal and normal-looking older gentleman. Before I could answer, I saw my brown paper bag a few feet beyond him.

"Oh!" I gasped. "My wine! Did it break?"

I babystep ran over to the package to find the Rioja safely intact within and clutched it to my chest.

"Miss?" The gentleman held up my Malbec, also miraculously unscathed.

"Oh, thank god!" I cried, snatching it from him. "Thanks!"

"I like that you have your priorities in order," he informed me. "Also, I think your face is bleeding."

"My FACE is bleeding?!" I shrieked, running back to my car and flinging myself in on my knees to examine the damage in the rearview. "Shit." Sure enough, a nearly perfect trickle of blood was trailing from my bottom lip down my chin. I wiped it on my hand before it could get to my white scarf, and glanced around helplessly for a minute until the same gentleman ducked down beside my open door and handed me a Dunkin' Donuts napkin.

"It's supposed to just get icier as the night goes on," he offered. "Don't you have any boots not for the club?"

I stared. Boots not for the club. "I'm staying in," I informed him, faintly.

"Ah," he nodded, mildly perplexed. "Probably for the best."

***

I am sitting in the center of my bed wearing pink pajama shorts with smiling green turtles on them with a UNH sweatshirt. I have located bruises on my left shin, left ring finger (which, for the record, has its own whole host of problems in not even including its lack of diamond) and right instep.

And my lip is still bleeding and so I am considering drinking wine through a straw.

Ebay Part II.

2010-02-04T16:24:00.000-08:00

Yes so as of an hour or so ago I am the lucky winner of a Botkier wallet I apparently forgot I bid on in my miniature eBay frenzy of last week. Um, see ya later $170.

Spending Freeze 2010 is going well. Did I mention I am in the midst of Spending Freeze 2010? I am.

(Full disclosure: It is a very, very excellent wallet, as well as new with tags, and that price is more than 50% off its retail, so I will likely be psyched about this accidental purchase when it arrives. BUT STILL.)

It's a miracle I figured out that whole PayPal thing, for starters.

2010-02-01T17:35:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things to do as an adult is pretend I can afford to shop exclusively designer.

I like to think I'm better than the average twenty-something pretender in this respect because, rather than crawling into strange vans off Canal Street and scrutinizing is-it-or-isn't-it Gucci handbag stitching, I just buy what I want at the quality I want in lieu of things like "dinner" and "cable." Also I have way better taste.

Of late, I have become completely and utterly obsessed with Botkier. Her stuff is fantastic - superior leather quality, rich, saturated colors, and comfortable designs in a range that can suit everyone. AND, comparatively speaking, it's relatively affordable - and absolutely worth its price range, which is something that can't be said for every designer.

Currently, my Botkier collection consists of the Cooper Convertible Hobo in burgundy, currently not on the Botkier site or in stores but available at Endless.com in three colors and the Viola flats in black, currently on sale at Botkier but only available in orange.

Not incredibly extensive, but enough that I watch rabidly for sales and have to talk myself out of pretty much daily purchases. I've started donating my other bags and heavily anticipate building my new collection with a noticeable trend. The Cooper Convertible is pretty much the perfect bag - the hobo is a dream, and I've heard great things about the tote version as well (I really had to talk myself out of buying it in coffee like a week after I got my bag). It's great for work (the smaller handles are excellent for when you feel like strutting around like an Important Business Lady) but the shoulder strap and soft leather frame keep it casual enough for weekend/happy hour/etc. use, and the thing makes a room smell like a frigging tannery. And the flats are like butter, and the barbell detail on the toe is 1 million times cooler than those Tory Burch medallions even wish they were.

Up until a week ago, I'd been having dreams of the Sasha Duffle, or, as I like to call it, Botkier does PS1!!!11! I may like faking it til I make it or whatever, but I'm not going to joke that I'm in any position to be purchasing Proenza Schouler's IT bag that's sold out everywhere anyway. I'm not actually currently in a position to be throwing down for any more Botkier at the moment, either, but this bag was not leaving my immediate attention, and so, for the first time ever, I thought "I wonder if they have this on ... eBay?"

Also up until a week ago I had not used eBay before.

You can imagine my panic attack when, after bidding on seven Chanel scarves and a 2.55, a Stam bag and two Botkier bags, I finally got around to reading the fine print and realized I would actually be responsible for purchasing all of these items should I find myself the high bidder. Then, I quickly realized, I had not bid high enough to even remotely dream of winning anything. So I immediately increased my bids on everything, and had another panic attack and then sat on my hands for three days. (God forbid I ever find myself holding an auction paddle.)

Slowly but surely, I was outbid on everything (starting with the 2.55, obviously). By this point, I had a clear grasp of the eBay rules, and revisited ONLY the Botkier Sasha up for grabs and increased my max bid.

I swore, aloud and with my kitten Don Juan as my witness, that I would leave it at that and just wait for the auction to end with no further activity on my part. If I won, I won, if I lost, I lost. It was in fate's hands. Except fuck that, have you met me and fate? Not. So. Much. I do not let it unfold, I take control!

12 minutes before the auction was set to end I was eating Trader Joe's pate and Yellowtail shiraz for dinner because I am that fancy and repeatedly telling myself to ignore the laptop three feet to my left, its low-battery light winking devilishly.

11 minutes before the auction was set to end, I was swearing a blue streak at h****k, who had had the audacity to outbid me in the final minutes of this days-old auction that had been dominated by me all along. I bid. She bid. I bid. She bid. I bid. O****8 entered the race. I began to sweat. I drank wine from the bottle. I was $31 over my max bid. I bid again. H****k seemed to be out. I swore I was done. Don Juan began yelling at me, demanding I still purchase him the good litter this month.

And THEN: I WON.

I yelped. I jumped. I wondered briefly if it would have defects undetectable in the photos despite its seller claiming it to be "new". I pushed the thought away. I won!

And for only a fraction of its original price!

And the next morning I went to work and learned that a payroll error had occurred and I would not be paid for any of my OT until my next check. Sigh.

(And, of course, according to the USPS tracking, it has been delivered as of today. It is not here. SIGH.)

Panini = Just Italian for "sandwich" after all.

2010-01-27T15:27:00.000-08:00

My naivety might be showing here, but learning today that ordering a panini does not necessarily mean you will be getting a glorious melty warm concoction on pressed ciabatta bread was both jarring and depressing.

Despite having had some weird microwave lunch (the usual) stashed in the office fridge since Monday, I tore out of the office in a hunger fit around 1:30 today to get a panini from the little place next door. I'd had one last week (chicken, mozzarella, pesto and red peppers) and hadn't really stopped thinking about it since, so I figured indulgence was in order. Obviously my willpower is pretty nonexistent.

Today I decided to go with the "Southwestern Turkey": Turkey, gouda, bacon and black bean, tomato and corn salsa. I ordered it to go and stared, trancelike, at bakers' racks full of frosted brownies and black and white cookies while it was prepared.

My co-worker who sits at the desk opposite mine immediately burst into laughter upon seeing my reaction a few minutes later when I pulled it out of its to-go bag and found myself confronted with the aforementioned ingredients cut cold (but admittedly all fresh and lovely) and piled high between two slices of square, cold multigrain bread. NO GRILL MARKS.

"Southwestern turkey panini?" she asked.

"I am not crazy," I replied. "This just looks like a sandwich, right?"

"Yes. BUT. I researched paninis extensively the other day after making that exact mistake. They're only usually toasted. You are in fact eating a 'cold' panini," she explained, sympathetic if amused.

"But it's just a sandwich!" I argued, as I was furiously accessing Wikipedia. "Oh."

Panini (sandwich)

How unglamorous. Thank god there was bacon in it.