I was doing my usual 4pm workday chi-aligning routine—popping barely unwrapped Dove chocolates and some dry-eyed unblinking browsing of cheap fast fashion websites while 5,000 different work-related gchats glimmered in the background—and I came across the most delightful curio:
A so-called “Foam Party Skirt” for $35 at Necessary Clothing that looks a lot like those gathered-waist crepe minis I’ve been seeing everywhere that I can’t stop thinking about (I don’t know what attracts me to the way a paper-bag waist looks on a lady but I fuckin’ love it, like on a borderline sexual level. An a-line skirt that comes in tight across the tiniest part of the waist and then flares back out under the ribcage a little oh my lord someone get me my smelling salts).
I also can’t stop thinking about how it’s called specifically a “Foam Party Skirt.” It says it’s made of cotton in the garment description (not that I’d be at all surprised/confused if it said it was made of 100% foam, because in this beautiful universe that is a complete, tantalizing possibility) so I guess here, “foam” is used as like, an illustrative adjective? The way there is a “Danger Zone” Romper and a “Space Cadet Bandage” Skirt (lol x2). In which case there’s some copywriter out there who, whilst, no doubt, sucking on a dick-shaped popsicle made of MD 20/20 in their lawn chair-cum-home office somewhere in Paramus, New Jersey, saw this skirt and said, “Why, this skirt shall be called “Foam Party!” Why not, why not? There must have been a Google search for “Closed-Cell Resin Celebration Jumper” and “Polybicarbonate Lazy Day Private-Part Covering Unit,” and, upon finding both of these clothing names already licensed to Express, the writer must have just simply taken a shot in the dark and gone with “Foam Party Skirt.” Why not? Why not.
I don’t know what a Foam Party is, even, but I sure hope I’m invited to one before I turn 30. And I hope the Foam Party someday takes Congress. And I hope someone throws me a surprise Foam Party for my birthday this coming year, which means probably that my entire birthday goes largely forgotten except that someone halfheartedly tosses a balled-up one of these skirts onto my doorstep with a note that reads simply, “Here.”
Is that photo shoot of Kate Upton boobing around in a zero-gravity simulator plane a Foam Party? Probably most definitely, yes.
I love this skirt. I want to wear it with a metallic spray-painted baseball helmet, a utility vest and a dream. It’s my Foam Party and I’ll whatever if I whatever.
Whoever named this skirt, thank you, thank you for your beautiful mind. Yes, I’m RSVPing. I’m here. I’m outside the door. I’ve got $35 and a zillion charmeuse blouses to shove into the waistband of this thing. Is this where I go for the Foam Party?
In Which I Take a Break from Dressing Myself and Try Dressing an Apartment Instead
I’m not gonna do that bloggery thing where i’m like “sorry for my absence, guys, I’ve been so busy traveling across many Asian nations sampling local fare, shopping for new condos in desirable metropolitan neighborhoods, attending various fashion weeks, getting engaged and married, having 100 babies and working working working just totally hustling!” Because tbh—yes, I moved into a new place, yes, work has been busy, but also, mostly, I’ve been lazy, watching TV because I now have cable, and feeling general uninspired and malaise-y as this frigid winter crawls on and on and on like and endless snails’-pace flow of post-nasal drip.
What have I actually accomplished in my leave? I’ve gone to fuckin’ cute-ass apartment-envy toon-town with my Joe, that’s what! NSFW to follow, that is, if your work forbids cozy abodes that reek of love and IKEA an hand-me-downs!
The bones were there already—because we hit the fuckin’ jackpot with our new place and its renovated kitchenette, original clawfoot tub, stained glass-accented windows, cool SLIDE-OPEN WALL THAT DOUBLES AS A BEDROOM DOOR, and small “office” that we decided to dedicate to a life of walk-in-closetship. We spent a nauseating amount of money at target and ikea, which is so not ME (read: i never have nauseating amounts of money to begin with?) but it was 1) worth it because I haven’t felt this at-home in a home I’ve had since i lived with my parents and 2) good to get all the spend out of the way in the beginning, so now it’s over and done and I can focus on little fun things like, fuckin, trefoil-printed coasters.
At the risk of sounding like the narrator of a Canadian-based house hunting show, I have to say our apartment just has so much character, which is not totally uncommon in Brooklyn, but USUALLY comes at the expense of modern updates. Our place has both. The fireplace, prescribing to that golden rule of NYC lodging that ALL FIREPLACES MUST NEVER EVER BE FUNCTIONAL AT ALL, isn’t functional at all. So we shoved Joe’s little flatscreen into the fire part, and I went buckwild on the mantle.
The Fernet-Branca tin was a gift from a bartender friend, the flowers are plastic placeholders for the real flowers I keep forgetting to buy, and I solved the “are photographs from our real life tacky or endearing?” by blending in Joe’s and my favorite family pics with these letterpress postcards I got at IKEA years ago. Candles, for the first time in like, 7 years of my life, are used only for decoration and ambiance, rather than to mask an ever-present atmospheric haze of mad dank weed. The horse poster was only $12 at IKEA but I know will look way more luxe when framed and hung properly.
Finding good decor that isn’t too femme or masc is something I was kind of stressed about. I didn’t want Joe to feel like he was living inside a tampon garden, but I also wanted to flex the design muscle I’ve been pumping full of juice since I watched my first episode of Trading Spaces at age, like, 10. Horse print was the first thing we both were like ~yes!!~ and every time I look at it, I feel inspired to find more good-lookin’ stuff that toes the line between gally and boy-ey.
Another first for me—a room where the bed is the centerpiece, not smooshed against a corner in an effort to max-out every possible unused square inch of hang-out floorspace. Now we have a living room that is OURS, so the bedroom can be for the bed, and a few dressers. Symmetry is mine! The quilt was a housewarming gift from my mom, and I think that, like the horse poster, it’s stylish and unique without being ultra-girly (although Joe shocked me and earned like 10 bonus love points when he said he’d be cool with a paisley print here and there).
Quilts are flatter than comforters and duvets—an observation that you don’t think will be that noticeable until it, like, is. And I’m someone who’s all about over-the-top texturey fluff-ness when it comes to beds. To add some dimension to the bed in where the quilt FELL FLAT GET IT, I’m mainlining throw pillows in competing patterns. This is another way I’ve reached a compromise between feminine and masculine design—for every flowery pillow, there’s a BOAT ONE.
The Ladies Home Journal print is actually the cover of a 1956 issue I scored at an antiques market in Maine over the holidays. I bought two for $5 each, sliced off the covers and framed ‘em in $15 Home Goods frames. This one fell off the wall and its frame broke, so it’s posing here for now. My plan is to scour etsy or whatever for some mid-century dude magazine covers, and do something collage-y on a living room wall.
Our dining corner is moonlighting as a bookshelf for now as we 1) lock down a new bookshelf since we ~couldn’t carry home the one we wanted from IKEA~ and since we ~don’t have dining chairs~. The photos are Joe’s. They’re of Naperville, Illinois, which is important to him for I don’t know why, but I love they way they vibe with our old-timey-witch-doctor-sketches-of-flora-and-fauna curtain panels. The table looks like it has all this rubbed-off-white vintage charm but surprise, it’s just filthy and was very poorly spray-painted by URZ TRULY in 2011. Someday soon, I’d like to have four mismatched chairs around this sucker, and I’d like to re-paint it, and I’d like to eat real food at it. For now, it’s Seamlessing tikka masala on the couch, and tossing all my whatevers on the half-table.
What you do with hair tutorials I do with makeup tutorials.. "Just prime your eyes with something from MAC which costs more than my rent" yeah sure I have $50 to spend on thing I put on my eyes before the $60 eyeshadow...eat a dick.
Been a fan for a long time, I really love the blog! I figured you'd be the one to ask for cool leather jackets that won't be 100% plastic & won't require that I sell a kidney. Are they even a thing??? Thanks and congrats again, you're great!
Hello my dear little fawn! Thank you infinitely for reading.
You’re touching upon one of my ~~Fashion Pressure Points~~ with this question, so that’s great! I’m a huge advocate for holding out for leather at all times, even though faux is cheaper. There are a zillion reasons I feel this way, one of which is that I think I’m genetically coded to be phobic to all things leatherette. My mom made me this way—her credo has always been, never skimp on shoes and jackets. Namaste, mama. Other main reasons to go leather include:
1. Lasts forever. Leather jackets as a style are totally timeless—you’ll never find a time in your life when you’re like, ugh, time to throw this thing in the trash, what a waste of money! NEVER! I’ve had the same leather moto jacket since 2007, and it’s only gotten better looking over time.
2. Warmer and more breathable. Besides looking way too glossy to be natural, PU is super unbreathable. That’s why Payless-brand ballet flats make your feet smell like wet death. Faux leather jackets are useless in all weather—too cold for fall, and way too hot for spring/summer. You might as well be wearing a plastic bag.
3. Wears better. As I mentioned, I’ve had the same jacket for 7 years strong—by now, it’s super buttery, worn out in all the right places, nicely creased and still a compliment magnet. Ever seen a pair of year-old faux-leather shoes? Yeah, they tend to like, molt. And flake apart. Yuck.
The biggest sin of faux leather, though, is that brands nowadays somehow get away with charging over $100 for pleather jackets—AND IDIOTS LIKE, GO FOR THAT. Looking @ you, Free People, which somehow has turned the oxymoron “vegan leather” into an expensive and sought-after textile. It gets my goatskin gloves, it really does.
So good on you for seeking out the real deal. Now let me help.
Damn this is nice. It’s 100% genuine leather, has that great ribbed detailing on the arms and back panel, and is under $200. I love the asymmetrical zip, and that it seems to be a perfect length—one gripe about my moto jacket is it’s slightly cropped, and depending on what I wear with it, I risk looking like a punk rock jellyfish or something if I zip it up, with my shirttails flapping all about. I kinda want this??? Also—black. You know what faux-leather is good for? Trendy colored pieces you’ll only wear for a season or two. If you’re getting a leather jacket, get black. MOREOVER, a friend of mine has an ASOS-brand leather jacket, and it’s great quality. Check here every season—they’re always upping their leather collection.
Dunno who the F Billy Austins is, but he knows how to make a nice leather jackie for cheap! Billy Austins for president! Billy2016! This jacket has a lot of character—some really cool seaming around the shoulders and bust, a cut-out collar that would look great layered under your wool coat for a super-textury blast of xtra warmth, and a clever little snap at the neck (IT’S DA LIDDLE TINGS!!!!). Shopping brands that sell exclusively leather is a good bet for when you’re looking for leather deals—they have sales too, after all, and when they do, THE SALE IS ON LEATHER JACKETS.
This jacket? Is fucking? Cool as shit? Buying your leather vintage can get you a REAL slick deal, and if you’re the type of person who gets sad about slaughtering animals to wear their skin as your own, buying a jacket that was pre-owned and has existed on this planet long after the soul of its murdered animal counterpart has wafted into heaven is a feel-good way to circumvent pleather. You also get authenticity—A REAL 80S BIKER JACKET RATHER THAN WHAT SOME 26 YR OLD BUYER AT URBAN OUTFITTERS THINKS A REAL 80S BIKER JACKET SHOULD LOOK LIKE!!!—and the perfect degree of worn-inness. I’d suggest shopping IRL at thrift shops, consignment stores and flea markets rather than buying online, though. Vintage items can fit differently than modern-day stuff (read: bulky as shit) and vintage leather tends to smell totally INSANE, so it’s best to see it, try it on and sniff it before you buy.
Helpful? Hope so! All I want for this world is for every young woman to have one really cool, super rock-n-roll yet totally wearable 100% genuine leather moto jacket. Is that so much to ask? Oh and also no more street harassment. But if you get street harassed while wearing a leather jacket, well, that motherfucker better prepare to die.
Silk blouse, Joe Fresh Spring 2013, $20. Printed jeans, Gap Summer 2013, $40, Pink plastic necklace, Forever 21, $6. Green plastic necklace, JCrew Factory, gift from boyfrand, Booties, H&M Fall 2011, $40. Bag, Michael Kors Winter 2012, gift from mama.
Have I told you my thoughts on this winter? It’s ruining me. But I think I’ve conveyed this already. A writer knows when she’s gone too far.
The great thing about living in New York, though, is that seasons are a suggestion when it comes to dressing. I mean, every fuckin’ Februrary, they show the fall collections. WHERE’S THE LOGIC IN THAT AM I RIGHT (I’M A MIDWESTERN DAD). I saw a woman trudging in beige stilettos through today’s weather (someone put God’s slushie machine into a microwave and then threw a titanic spit ball on top and then put it in a nuclear reactor and then gave that whole thing to NYC). No stockings! Women wear crop tops to work here. There are no rules. There is one rule: if you don’t walk outside and immediately burst into flames, what you’re wearing is fine.
This means that I’m allowed to channel some of my spring things a little early, right? It’s that or I become a cutter. Your call, universe.
When I got these pants this summer (mom had them and I copied her—this is my struggle) I couldn’t stop imagining them with printed tops. There’s something so ice-creamy-good-yummy about putting print on top of print, especially with the colors of this crisp-nod-to-Lisa Frank silk blouse. It’s very I don’t care I love it crashed my car whatever. And I give myself extra points for pairing something with these pants that my mama would never do. #teens
To the Reader who Asked what Lipstick I'm Wearing in my GIF from this Morning:
None! Prob best compliment I’ve ever received tho, even though I owe it all to lighting, weird low-quality tumblr gif color distortion and the natural flush of a gal who was, moments earlier, sloshing her way to work through an NYC ice storm after a 7:30 am appointment with her gastroenterologist.
Help I Put a Deposit Down on a New Apartment and Now I'm Drowning in a Sea of Accent Chair Options
My mother warned me this would happen someday. She said, if you think being obsessed with clothes is bad, just wait till you have your own place. You’re done for, she’d say, mourning whatever insidious strain of materialism DNA she passed along to me. And now the day has arrived.
Joe and I put a deposit down on a thrillingly perfect little love nest in Clinton Hill yesterday, and the moment I signed the check I started decorating. Just kidding, the moment I walked into the charming vintage-touches-with-modern-renovations one-bedroom, I started decorating. Just kidding, the moment I realized Joe was a good-smelling dude with no sociopathic proclivities, I started decorating.
Gloriously, we have a couch, which simply needs a new slip cover. And we have a bed, mine, which is the best thing on earth, so naturally my next move is what anyone’s would be: Upholstered Accent Chair. The living room is small-ish and sweet, so furniture must be tiny but mighty. Thank GOD we live in a retail era where clever chairs generously padded and covered in delightful geometric-patterned fabrics can be purchased for under $200 at the same places we buy our fresh produce, batteries and period underwear. Thank you Bangladesh. Thank you China. And thank you Jonathan Adler-of-10-years-ago, without whom Target wouldn’t have the quatrefoil club chairs they have today.
Guys, I thought the embellished sweatshirt trend was overwhelmingly fruitful. I had no idea what was waiting for me in the cosmic realm of accent chairs. Just look.
So this is a liiiiiiittttttle more baroque-ish than the casual, threadbare, sorta-seaside-but-also-sorta-fashion-barn-esque vibe I have already decided the entire apartment will have, but I also love it more than I love most ankle boots. Also I feel like the beige linen makes it less of a contender for Lady Edith’s imminent hip German tryst loft that she will be buying herself in no time at all, and more of a contender for me to buy, love, eat sloppy joes upon, and throw a real sweet pillow just-so upon.
2. “Hudson Swoop” red geometric chair, Target, $200
I’ve already told Joe no bright red. He told me no florals (too bad so sad there will be some florals I HAVE CHRONIC MIGRAINES AND $60K IN STUDENT LOANS PLEASE GIVE ME THIS 1 THING) and when I thought what Joe might try to do that was tantamount to florals in no-no territory, I thought, he will want to paint a wall bright red, or he will want cartoon sheets. I am not as scared of red now that I’ve met Chair, here. Look how kind and gentle Chair looks. Look at Chair’s elegant arms and great pattern. I love Chair? And what was I thinking—a pop of red is like, the PIZZA of furniture. Always great to have. Especially when Perfect Little Coffee Table is around. Which he will be. He. Will be.
Woke up on the Walmart furniture website sayin how the hell did this ambitious chunk of furniture happen oh babe, because wow, Wal-Mart, you punched in and you worked. This is a thoroughly pleasant chair from the people who, mere weeks ago, had dedicated roughly 60% of their Auburn, Maine location to various vintages of Duck Dynasty wares. I would curl up on this chair and read, for fuck’s sake! I’d call my mom from this chair! I’d also use this chair to cry endlessly over Joe leaving me, which he would do, because this chair is so girly I half expect to find a set of fallopian tubes under its dainty cushion. Anyway, I’m ordering 7.
Lauren vs. Hair Tutorials: Volume 1--Milkmaid Braids
Every young woman in our generation has had an evening like this. It’s a Wednesday. You are alone. No one will give you their HBO Go password, you’ve eaten your evening DIY salumi board, you’re drinking the boxed wine that’s probably past its prime but says it’s good for a month after opening so you’re running with it, and you’re in your bedroom, staring open-mouthed and unblinking into your 18th consecutive YouTube hair tutorial.
Every woman. Has had an evening like this.
And yet we all go about our normal lives, carrying out daily business, acting toooootttallly normal, as if all of the hair tutorials on YouTube weren’t TOTAL AND COMPLETE PIECES OF BOLDFACE ASS CRAP LIES.
Because WHEN DO THEY EVER WORK. WHEN? DO THEY WORK FOR YOU? If they work for you I want you to email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and tell me the exact MERMAID-COWGIRL-MOTORCYCLE BABE TRIBE YOUR MOTHER WAS A PART OF WHEN SHE MET YOUR FATHER, ZEUS, AND MADE YOU, A GIRL BABY WITH ANGELIC PLAYDOUGH HAIR THAT DOES WHATEVER THE FUCK YOUR COMPUTER TELLS YOU TO DO WITH IT.
Because I am a daughter of two French-Canadians. My hair is made of polyester. Like you know when you buy a blouse at H&M and the hem unravels and it starts fraying and the individual fibers reveal themselves? That’s my hair. Also I have, like, 24 hairs in total. So, no, I do not have great fucking hair.
But I figure, every now and then, I’ve gotta be able to do the milkmaid braids by now. “It’s been, what, six months since you last tried it?" I ask myself, running my green scaly witch hands through my grimy headnest, removing juicy maggots as I go and popping them into my mouth. "Give it a try again, girl, you’re older and wiser now, it’ll work." And I chug the last of my crocodile-human umbilical cord blood cocktail and try it again.
This time I used the first video that popped up—this one. Looked harmless enough. Posted by an account called “BeautyDept” and clocking in at a cool 2:31, it seemed p chill. P chill. Of course right off the bat there are those HAIR TUTORIAL VID STAR PLAYERS—the cheerful banjo improv soundtrack, the waify French-soap-complexion model, the hair that just floats there as if each strand is being held at the perfect level in the universe by its own goddamn marionette string.
I will kill this bitch. Look at her dumb perfect everything.
And then she goes along and just does THIS.
hahaha look at me I’m a milkmaid just kidding I’m a junior at Barnard and can you believe they’re paying me for this hhaaaa look how the light just seems to find all the best parts of my face and just soak into it hahah
OH BUT WAIT BUT WAIT then they go:
YES OK LET ME JUST FIND MY CROCHET NEEDLE AND JUST PICK AT MY HEAD WITH IT BITCH I HAVEN’T EVEN GOT THE DAMN BRAIDS DONE YET
Who has a crochet needle RESERVED SPECIFICALLY FOR HAIR anyway, you ask? Prob the same girl who has ARTISANAL RIBBONS of textiles just laying around in her Kaboodle waiting to be SEWN INTO HER HAIRSTYLE WITH A SECOND, DISTINCTLY DIFFERENT NEEDLE.
I don’t want to be fancy. I just want to live.
So at this point I’m basically having a meltdown and I have two pathetic braids that are like, pencil-thin and miserable, and the banjoman is still GOIN’ IN THE BACKGROUND while our girl in Ängelholm is just sewing away at her thick, shining, unshakeable, rope-like braids.
And here’s what I get. The same thing I aways get.
I don’t. Get it. We are all WOMEN. WE ARE ALL HUMAN. HOW CAN ONE WOMAN do the milkmaid braids before MY VERY EYES, with no apparent VOODOO, and look like that blonde dairy goddess, but when I do the exact same series of steps, I turn out like a weird strawberry-head wearing a bad Olivia Benson-doing-the-cropped-hair-thing toupee.
The inequities of our world are vast and nebulous and churning like a fiery vitriolic stew. All I can ever do is ponytails and we’re all gonna die anyway.
Sunglasses, $16, Ron Jon Surf Shop, Cocoa Beach, FL
Has there ever been a winter so bone-splintering? So skin-flakening? So eyeball-shattering? So hair-crisping? I grew up in Maine, which, yaaaa, northernmost state in the continental union, and like, no—never has there been a winter like this in my life. Not in my life. It’s like the entire city of New York is a bathtub full of ice water. No one is happy, everyone is miserable, toddlers are rolling around all over the place in their crazy parkas and snowsuits, like Nerf footballs—no agency, no autonomy, nothing, no one.
Joe and I escaped to Florida this past weekend for a minute. We were only there two full days and only one of those days did the weather really bleed Florida. Saturday was sunny and 70 and breezy and we spent it lolling through a parallel universe called Islands of Adventure. It’s incredible to me that some people live in Florida and California and places like that, and winters aren’t a reality for them. As we waited for 50 minutes in the coiling queue for The Whateverthefuck Harry Potter Ride, and the sun streamed all over everything, and I was in my brand new Jurassic Park t-shirt and it smelled like warm light, I thought about how only a few hundred miles away, NYC was being brutally fisted by another glass-cracking cold front. It was laughable. Joe and I laughed. We slurped on our ice creams and laughed. This is why we all laugh about Florida.
Anyway, later I bought these sunglasses at Ron Jon Surf Shop, which, idk, is another Florida thing that we norths don’t understand. My goal is to make them last till summer—like, not break the fucking shit out of them like I have every other pair of sunglasses I’ve ever owned or even looked sidelong at—and they’ll serve as some ritual relic of 2013-2014, The Winter that Murdered Souls.
The only thing keeping me clinging to the grille here is that while winter in New York is a dark, howling nightmare, summer in New York is practically paradise. And it’s gonna happen. We’re gonna get there. To all my girlfriends who have been corrupted by totally unexpected bouts of weeping this winter, it’s gonna happen. To my hairdryer, back for a second year as a secondary source of warmth when my heat just doesn’t feel like doin’ its thing, it’s gonna happen. To my romper collection, feeling lonely and forgotten and destitute at the bottom of my storage trunk, it’s gonna happen. I’ll see you there.
And in the meantime, these idiot sunglasses are coming with me every day for the rest of this fuckin’ winter. We’re gonna fake it.
I’ve mentioned before that I’m a big spender but a segmented one. I spend wildly on clothes, shoes and going out, but err on the side of stinginess when it comes to all things beauty. I get haircuts like, once a year, usually buy drugstore makeup, and only get manicures when my chewed-up cuticles don’t look horrific enough to scare a nail technician into a solemn life of nunhood. It’s not that I’m not a shallow, self-absorbed, high-maintenance gal, because I so so am, I just hate spending money on that crap.
But now that Christmas has passed, my makeup collection has finally rounded out quite nicely, for the first time in forever (a brief high school-era obsession with the entire line of Benefit cosmetics notwithstanding). Maybe I’m finally that mythical age of woman defined in women’s magazines as one who uses a few quality products rather than a zillion shitty ones. Or maybe my Birchbox just has had more influence on my life these past couple months than most authority figures have ever had. Who knows? Who cares? Buy all this shit!
I haven’t worn a foundation-type thing on my face in probably 10 years. Not-humble-brag: my skin is pretty fuckin’ great (before you go hate-inboxing me, take a look at the epic schnoz in the middle of my face that no amount of cream will ever make minimize). But in my old age (25), my skin is also drier than ever, prone to redness/blotchiness/general irritation, and basically poster-face for BB cream. Water Fuse has a sheer, one-size-fits-all tint that is probably more psychosomatically skin tone-evening than anything, but also gloriously not orange or cakey, and the stuff feels light and nourishing, has SPF in it so I don’t get wrankles, and is the right kind of moisture for everyday (those who complain about oil—I feel you, but also your skin doesn’t flake off like a damn tree frog’s every winter either, so like…). It makes my skin velvety and airbrushed-looking, and at $34, it’s expensive enough to seem like it’ll treat your face nice, but affordable enough to justify wearing every day, even lazy laundry Sundays. I like to think that Kate Middleton wears Dr. Jart Water Fuse BB. I like to think that.
Despite my self-proclaimed makeup stupidity, I am at least somewhat competent with a cream eyeliner. Since around 2008, my main makeup goal in life is to make my eyes seem bigger so the aforementioned epic schnoz seems smaller (lady magazine logic!!!), and thus, I forced myself to get mad good at a fierce upper-lashline. Sometimes I even cat-eye it out, whatever! I used to use the Maybelline brand (a shocking, like, $12!!?), but it would dry up considerably after a few weeks and go on like crap after that. The Clinique brand was better, but it was almost too gelatinous, and a single tiny wrist spasm would destroy my entire eye-look and I’d have to start all over—also it didn’t wash off well, so I looked like a corpse every morning. Buxom lashliner is way easier to control than the Clinique stuff, but goes on smoother than the drugstore brands and has a truer color. Also apparently this stuff is infused with lash-feeding goodness?? So far I have only one gripe: it smudges a shitton on my left eye only. The hell is that about? P.s. I am a hunchback.
I believe there can be high-quality BB creams and a low-quality ones. I’m not so sure about cream blushes though. After all, I use like, a thumbprint-sized amount of blush on each cheek, and who cares how long it lasts? By 4 pm everyday I care about almost nothing. That’s why I have no problem using this fun, sorta goofy blush. Did I buy it mostly based on the way it looks in the package and the package design? Yass, I did. Do I genuinely like the non-80s-rock-and-roll-girl flush it provides, its slight sheen, its gentle buildability? Yes, I do. Do I think it looks best patted on just under the cheekbones, about an inch and a half down in from where earlobes meet head? Yes. Yes. On a boring day sometime very soon will I put a shitload of it on both cheek-apples and pretend to be an anime heroine? Maybe!
You know those beauty items you see like, constantly, in every magazine, for like, the past 10 years? Like Maybelline Great Lash mascara? This is one of ‘em. Stainiac has been haunting my mags since I was a tween. Finally I tried it. It’s worth trying. It’s so so worth trying! I used to be a Benefit Benetint devotee, but that stuff dried wayyy too quickly and looked clownish if you didn’t have lightning fast blending reflexes (surprise I don’t I’m a hunchback!). Staininac is water-based and jelly-like, so 1) you don’t feel like you’re literally painting your face with blood and 2) you can work it almost like a cream or gloss. I layer it like crazy on my lips as an after-work face-rescue, and it looks really modern, fresh, and J Crew catalogue-y. Basically, a panacea.
“Women are less likely to live to age 50 if they’re born in the United States than other high income countries,” he says. “I have a chart where we show this pattern going back to 1980. Back then if you looked at the survival of women to age 50, the U.S. was in the middle of the pack. Over time, not only has the U.S. fallen down in the ranking, they’ve fallen off the chart. That’s something we’re trying to understand.”—
Lauren Spends Money on Others Gift Guide V3: JK THIS IS A LIST OF THINGS I WANT
My brother is 28 or something, and we love each other quite a bit. We have a good system of reaching out on Facebook when we’re having our respective monthly mental breakdowns. The other day he sent me a message like, “What do I get you for Christmas, Laur?” and I, a person who could probably find a way to want literally everything that’s ever been manufactured in the history of the planet, responded, “Matt, I have a blog that is made up of 98% shit I want.” He was relieved. But I have no idea what to get him, still — flavored popcorn tin? Smartwool socks.
Let’s say I was soulless and actually DID make a Things I Want List for my family and friends —which, no, I would never do. But in the spirit of the Gift List, let’s say I did. Here’s what would be on it (can’t wait for the anonymous comments to roll in on this one! I left “taxidermied baby” off the list so no one would think I was a bad person, but, it’s technically on the list because I adore dead baby decor).
1. Intimidatingly Chic Weekend Bag, Found Object, $160, Fab.com
The funny thing about me is I made a sarcastic dead baby joke up there in the intro but there is nothing facetious about how badly I want to own this fur-and-leather weekend bag, which is essentially a take-anywhere DIY taxidermy kit. This is a dead animal with handles. I travel a little more often every year, as my salary gently eeks its way up the ladder, and my usual go-to weekend bag (a tinfoil-silver Betseyville roller scored by Mama at TJMaxx while I was still in college) is falling apart at the faux-leather seams. I blame most of the damage on O’Hare — they let you just walk around with alcoholic beverages all you want there. Also this bag is shockingly affordable, all fabrications considered.
2. Tinned Candle with Impeccably Designed Label, Good Nature, $16, Anthropologie
I went kind of buckwild in the Anthropologie charming holiday gift curio department this year? Everyone I know: clear off a shelf on the credenza, you’re getting a big haul of real cute illustrated canape plates from yours truly. But see, what happens when you’re gift-shopping is you start getting all these crazy ideas for yourself like, shit, maybe I deserve a just-because candle or maybe I deserve decorative drawer pulls that look like old typewriter keys. And then before you realize it you’re swimming into Anthropologie MULTIPLE TIMES per week and then Bank of America is like JESUS H YOU HAVE TO STOP YOU MUST NOW STOP. These candles I have now sniffed like 4 times each. My favorites are the Olive Blossom and Mint Citrus ones. Joe and I will be moving into an apartment for grownups sometime in the spring, and I imagine one or two of these candles being there.
Frankly it makes me generally uncomfortable that I don’t own a single chelsea boot. I consider myself to be a pretty blindly committed trend-whore. Like if boots made out of dead babies were in, I would not really even think twice about buying them in at least two colors. As I type, I’m wearing my favorite-ever TopShop lace-up black ankle boots with a perfect low heel (I’ve mentioned them before— the life-changers?), and they’re FALLING. APART. Something has come loose on the hollow inside-part of BOTH heels, so it clacks like a baby rattle every time I walk, and part of the sole is separating from the foot. It’s all very bad. Such anxiety. I know that with these Doc’s, that would never. Ever. Happen. Doc’s were built to withstand some really dark shit — winter weather, punk-rock apocalypse, puddles of that mysterious liquid that drips from the ceilings of subway platforms. Also the leather that these are made of is described on the Docs website as “greasy, soft leather with an oily coating” which 1) sounds delectable and 2) brings me one step closer (pun intended) to my life goal of wearing murdered infant seals as accessories. (Readers: please take me seriously. I am serious.)
4. Conceptual Gift, Chelsea, New York City, $0
To not have to walk by, first, a LIVE GIRLS INSIDE peep-show-adult-entertainment shack (6th and 24th) with a single window behind which 3 headless mannequins boast holiday-appropriate lingerie year-round and perpetually erect nipples AND THEN a David’s Bridal (6th and 25th) every day, twice a day, on my way to and from my office, because it makes me feel really bummed about being a woman in America, because where’s the LIVE MEN INSIDE peep-show with the headless guy mannequins with forever-erections and where’s the men’s tuxedo shop with window decals that says TODAY’S YOUR DAY, because to have to see these two sad places side-by-side every day and know they’re looking back at me doesn’t make me feel very liberated as I walk to and from the career I built.
Here is a short list of stuff to buy those lovable paleo foodies in your life!
Food is great. Duh. And what better way to show your own CrossFitting paleo bud that you care about them than by buying them delicious Paleo foods?! (You do not have to eat paleo or CrossFit to enjoy the following…
My clean-eating bestie in Portland, ME made a gift guide for paleo foodies. Included: a machine that turns anything into pasta-like shapes. Sign me up. Except I would probably just shove like a slice of pizza into the thing and make pizza-pasta oh wow that just came to me
Santa baby, my behavior is none of your concern Santa baby, my goodness and the number of men I have or haven’t kissed have nothing to do with one another Santa what are the working conditions like for the miners in that platinum mine you gave me the deed for Santa I’m responsible for providing them with a living wage and guarding them from occupational hazards Santa baby, the occupational safety of the working poor is a feminist issue I’m concerned about asbestos-related heart and lung cancer rates among the employees of my platinum mine
— by the illustrious Mallory Ortberg. See many more over at The Toast
The fact that something most people do pisses you off so much says a lot more about you than it does about them. What it says is that you're a narcissist who thinks she's the be-all-end-all of snarky fashion, culture & goddamn near everything else. I'm going to take a wild guess & leave it at that: In the real world, nobody - and I mean nobody - likes you, no matter what they may say to your face.
The eggplant has turned disastrous. The three discs of it I allotted myself today are gelatinous on the bottom of my Tupperware, like recently shorn tongues. All day they’ve been in the office fridge, soaking up the water that creates itself when hot food cools and lies dormant for 12 hours. When I pulled them from the oven last night, they were gorgeously parched, bronzed, salted and springy. Today I eat them first, before the polenta rounds, the overpriced chicken sausage that reheats itself into hot dog pieces, the canned tomatoes – because the longer they sit there, the eggplant slices, the more unbearably wet they become.
When it is chicken, each piece has to be lubricated while being chewed – like how with a factory machine, there are special water jets designed just to keep metal-on-metal slick in its hot intimacy. When I eat reheated chicken it is just like that, because I always overcook it on my pink George Foreman, like this: 10 minutes on the grill (too many), withdraw from grill and slice into fattest part to check for pinkness (it is done), assume it is still too raw and therefore deadly, deposit back onto grill, cook until flesh looks like a stack of papers and the faux grill-lines on the exteriors are cat-black. When reheated in a microwave the stuff turns to desert bone, and it doesn’t swallow without gulps of water flooding all around it.
Salad collapses in a fridge if you dress it the night before, which I always do, or the morning of, if I have the time. Freshly dressed in the tall container I store it in it looks ravishing – piles of arugula, too much, it seems!!, shining with oil, spiked with sea salt, lemon seeds joyfully tucked in here and there, tomato halves like pursed but pleasant mouths. Such a glad melee, and far, far too much arugula, but why not? Until I open it again at lunchtime, and it all has shriveled, as if grimly cooked in a deep-forest cauldron, into a sogging ball in the corner of the container, like an ogre, and I eat it basically in one slurp, and it slinks down my throat slowly, like the opposite of birth.
What is this? What is this what is this? A sandwich! A sandwich meant to seem like it was bought. This will be wonderful – what is this? How nice to not have a plastic box to have to open and feel sad into – what is this, a sandwich? It is lunchtime, and I have this magnificent tube of food that lays on its side and that I know I know I know is filled with ribbons of other food – sheets of white meat, swaths of leaf lettuce, curves of tomato like bunting on a country porch, and a rolled-up carpet of yellow American in the center. This will be good – that’s what this is. A real food. But when I go to cut it in half at an angle like they do at delis, I notice that the tortilla skin has turned sweaty and rubbery. When I take a bite I notice that the sandwich tastes not like food at all anymore, but like the stale, arid space of the insides of two separate fridges. Well, here and there in some bites are food tastes, but they’re more like shadows, or memories, or bad jokes.
On a day following an adventurous night in the kitchen, the rice has turned translucent-black. The beans remain black but no longer shine and steam – they’re matte now, like looking into a backyard charcoal grill. The guacamole has turned grey, it tastes like cold nothing. The cheese disappears in its 45-second romp around the microwave turntable – it is only texture now, a thickening agent, stretching like long fangs from the plastic dish to the fork held higher up. The feel is oatmeal, the flavor is stomach acid, the temperature is inconsistent – cold bits survive somehow, tucked away like cockroaches. No one envies this.
Somedays there is nothing. There was no conviction to cook, maybe, or some miniature cause for a mild celebration has emerged. Come 1:30 I peel myself from my office and escape to the street where the options are – things that taste, things that are steaming for the first time, things that will be enjoyed by more people than just me, at the same time as me, like being at school again. Things that people wait in lines for. Things that come in colorful bags and are carried back with purpose, with challenge. Things that are so good they are advertising themselves just by existing. And as fast as the climax arrives – today I can eat anything I want! – it becomes a vacuum. There is too much. It costs too much. The line is too long. The portion is too small. What if I need more. What if this isn’t it. And so I do what I always do on these days, on these days full of devastating potential and impossible opportunity: I surrender, hollow, and wilt into Pret-A-Manger.
Lauren Spends Money on Others Gift Guide V2: Gifts to Buy for Almost Any Dude
Why is it the way of the Western World to infiltrate Gift Guides for Guys with all things illustrated moustache and retro video game? Did we learn this in sex ed when we were kids? Women are from Venus and men will never get over Galaga so get them some stupid Galaga handheld that they can attach to their iPhones? Men like regular things. They wear clothes and eat food and aren’t all into whiskey accessories. Some men don’t even drink whiskey that often. Joe is trying to make rum happen. Anyway, stop trying to give the men in your life coffee mugs with illustrated moustaches on them, and try one of these more decent gifts instead. I mean it’s not like every Lady Gift List has exclusively hair accessories and rhinestone cosmetic pouches in it hahaha jk.
Everybody likes a hoodie. Men especially, because they can be worn several times a week and for whatever reason, that’s socially acceptable. Also, a warm man is a man who is a man with better chances at propagating his genes, which is a big plus in the world of dude. If your shopping list is full of men who hate clothes, get them this hoodie — it’s cool, sturdy, warm, functional and brown. If you’re shopping for a fashionable man, get him this hoodie — it’s on-trend, brown, warm, cool and functional and would look cool with riding leggings. If you’re shopping for your dad, get him this hoodie. If he is like my dad, he will wear it inside out for god knows why, but he will still wear it and feel safe in it and that’s what makes it a great gift for men.
Men use soap almost unfailingly, bless their little testosteroney hearts, but they don’t have the greatest options when it comes to which soap they use. There’s the Axe line, which is the brand equivalent of pumping oneself up with bovine recombinant growth hormones and is kinda shitty to women, there’s Old Spice Swagger, which, what even is that and why even is it, and then there’s the weird shit men buy when they’re in a pinch — like shitty Suave shower gel that smells like Moroccan Peaches or some weird sensual amalgamation like that. No to that stuff. Holiday gifts are about buying stuff for people that they wouldn’t normally buy themselves, so treat him to some well-made, good-for-him, non-finnicky shower stuff that gets the job done and smells cool too. He’ll be fascinated by Dr. Bronner’s 18-uses-in-1 claim, and you know he’ll text you every time he finds a new use. Don’t let him eat it; that’s not one of the uses. Men are stupid!
This holiday season, give him a hand job. Haha jk, give him these gloves, because unless he lives in California, he probably definitely has a cause for gloves right now in these trying times we call winter. The best thing about these is they can be fashiony if they’re worn with fashiony stuff, but if you’re shopping for a guy who couldn’t give two shits about style, give him two of these super-manly Brawny-guy gloves and he’ll be psyched. Every self-respecting man wants to sheath his burly hands in the skin of a dead buck. Unless he’s a vegan—then do NOT get him these. Think gloves are too typical of a man gift? That’s because they ARE A GREAT GIFT FOR MEN.
4. Make-Him-Famous and Show that You Believe in His Passions Thing, Personal Website, $8/mo, Squarespace
When I used to hear Squarespace ads on Spotify before I got fabulous and went Premium, they used to depress me because I thought they were this sad Geocities-like service that made sad little websites for sad people. Turns out they make fucking sick websites for like, really cool people and restaurants and bars and stuff. And for almost anything the guys in your life are into — BF, family, friends, whatever — there can be a website to make it better. This goes for girls too, but I ran out of non-doyyy stuff for my Men’s gift list, and I had too many for the Women’s gift list, so I had to make this distinction arbitrarily. But seriously imagine all of your dad’s collective knowledge of classic rock fun facts, on a website. Or all of your brother’s anarchist blog posts finally plucked from his gnarly blogspot.com feed and re-posted on an elegant platform with his own domain name of a reasonable length. Introduce your male counterparts to the power of the World Wide Web today. Advise him not to name his site Dude2.0 though. Strongly advise against that.
Because what could be more uncle-y than different types of meat, ripped from dead animals and shredded into jagged pieces, then cured with tons of salt and spice, then hung to dry in some arid closet for a really long time, then packaged in resealable bags the color of 90s-era snowmobiles. And called KRAVE with a K. Nothing could be more uncle-y. Get these for your uncles. All 5,680 of them.
Lauren Spends Money on Others Gift Guide V1: Gifts to Buy for Almost Any Girl
I am like most 25-year-old women living in a major city in that I love love love READING gift guides on various blogs and retail websites but I don’t don’t don’t ever have any intention of buying anything from the gift guides because I’m a human being with a hippocampus that functions satisfactorily and I know what I’m going to goddamn buy my loved ones more than some intern at Kate Spade dot com, you know? But the point is to inspire, not instruct — and since I keep a blog all about wanting things, it only seemed fit to start my own gift guiding traditions. So here we are.
Volume 1: Gifts for Almost Any Girl
There are tall girls and small girls. Curly-headed girls and flat-haired girls. Girls with dogs and girls with cats. Girls who’ve read 50 Shades and girls who haven’t. But all (most) girls have a few things in common. They include: not wanting to be told to smile on the street by strange men, and an affinity for fun presents that beautify and amuse and simply please. So for your friend, mama, auntie, coworker, favorite bodega cashier lady, whatever — here are some never-fails. (Ed. Note: women also like serious literature, fly fishing, welding, raw materials, etc., as well as prettifying presents, I know this, I know, don’t give me any shit — above all, lipgloss reigns and we all know it.)
1. Cheap Cute Thing:
You’ve seen these all over the place, yes? You saw them and thought, huh, didn’t think they could really upgrade the concept of hair elastics, but huh, they did. Huh. Well, let me tell you— I own these (bought on a whim because I’m an Any Girl and I love small, amusing, beautifying things) and their very presence on my vanity, office desk, wrist or head fills me with unbreakable joy. They are just so pretty it’s stupid. They’re supposedly kind to hair and all that crap, which, good, good, and they also, because they’re wide, add some bounce to ponytails (which, when flaccid, are omg ew), but the best part about them is that they have no real purpose in this world at all other than to be so cute and charming. Throw them at your friends at your next holiday party, use them to affix gift tags to presents, whatever, just give them to all of the women.
It’s not only because artiste spectaculare and full-time cutie Samantha Silverman is one of my dear friends that I’m crazy on her line of meticulously hand-squished clay goodies, I swear. It’s also because oh my inflatable light-up baby Jesus, is her shit cute. I just stopped by her table at a craft show this weekend, and it was like going to Baskin Robbins in a discoteque of happy. Browse her Etsy shop — most of it is sold, but she can make you something in a snap, or show you her inventory, if you reach out to her. The line of Kitty jewelry is ageless, if you ask me — I got some earrings for my tween cousins, but liked them unironically for myself, so… yeah, Sam, you beat Urban Outfitters at its own wild game. And if kitties are too feline for you, there are also some more macabre options, like DOLL ARM CHARM NECKLACES. What lady do you know who loves glossy, rainbow, saccharine-sweet, totally one-of-a-kind, really reasonably priced jewels? YEAH ALL OF THEM SO GO GET THIS STUFF DUMMY. (Love you Sammy thanks for coloring my world.)
What do you get the girl who has everything/the girl you don’t really know that well/the girl who was born a human girl? A BEAUTIFULLY WRAPPED MONTHLY SPRINKLING OF MINIATURE BEAUTY PRODUCTS SHE CAN ACTUALLY USE OH MY GOD. I subscribed to Birchbox when I got my new job a few months ago, To Celebrate Myself, and I have not regretted it at all. The best thing since Sephora opened in suburban Malls, Birchbox is a genius retailer with a fully functioning online shop that’s complemented by monthly deliveries of 5-7 beauty samples (color, hair, body, and sometimes chocolate because LADIES!), not to meniton generous coupons and irresistible branding. And at only $30 for a three-month gift subscriptch, your friend Jen will be reminded of how goddamn savvy-good you are well into March. There are few self-respecting gals out there who can resist a tiny beauty product wrapped in pretty tissue paper after a long day of squashing gender inequality and eating lunch at their desks. Also I got a salt spray in one of my boxes so yeah SUBSCRIBE LITERALLY IMMEDIATELY.
4. Pointless Thing to House All Her Other Pointless Things Thing, Jewelry Plate, $20, JCrew Stores
I saw this on the Crap You Don’t Need that Makes your Knees Buckle Because it’s All So Cute table at JCrew on Black Friday and I nearly wept. It is. So. So wonderful in 100 ways. I’m currently using a not-terrible-looking white ceramic charger I bought at the Dollar Tree in Lewiston, ME, to organize all the witchy potions and frankincense I keep on my vanity, so I know first-hand how useful this little tray can be. She could bring it to work, or leave it at her Sig Other’s for her own little region of ownership, or she could even reserve it specifically for her SoulCycle locker, but of course then you’d have to kill her for being so wretched. But where it belongs most is in her room, cuddling under the statement necklace you so generously bought her last year. Namaste, dumb little tray, namaste.
5. Pricey But Will Make Her Realize You’re Practically Her Right Fallopian Tube That’s How Fucking Great You Are Thing, Personalized Portrait Stationery, $135, Rifle Paper Co.
Be real, be real— when she says shit like, “I want to send more letters this year!”, you think it’s kinda twatty, but loveable too. Rifle Paper Co. is that used-in-promotional-online-webisodes-by-small-business-credit-card-purveyors kind of brand in which everything they make is just so CHARMING and they seem like such genuinely nice people you can’t help but want to spend $135 on their paper wares for your galfriend. So go big — get her a letter set or calling card personalized with a too-adorable rendition of her adorable little face, and her name, and watch her adorably never really use it but get all mushy over how adorable it is anyway for years to come.
Coolly Macabre Holiday Shopping Email from My Friend Ann
"My mom saw a dead body in Harvard Square on black Friday (outside of the Gap) . Still don’t know cause of death though I have been REGULARLY checking the Cambridge police blog (cause of death = LOW PRICES!)”
What televised-in-2009 long-bygone rerun-and-done pile of shit and sound am I going to bury my face into and cry at while eating a lot of soppressata tonight with my big dumb face in my big bed in the room with no real heat in decent lingerie for no reason?
3 Reasons why Black Friday is the Best American Holiday
Guys, full disclosj’ — I love Black Friday. This is because I love shopping, particularly with my mom, particularly at The Maine Mall, as you may have read in my chat with Logan about Why I Love Shopping by Lauren Rodrigue Age 8 on The Billfold a while ago. I’m not a get-up-at-1-am-and-hit-up-Best-Buy-for-a-cool-TV type, obviously. I’m more of a wow-50%-off-mild-mannered-sweaters-at-Gap-why-not-it’s-an-all-for-me-day. And so is my mom. On Black Friday we don’t stampede or crowd or wait in stupid lines. We careen down mallways. We flit through racks gracefully, chatting happily and excitedly like Disney birds. We languish in fitting rooms laughing and stretching out on the for-the-husbands couches, like they’re our Victorian drawing rooms, our paper shopping bags lined up like old important volumes on a shelf.
This time around, we didn’t even buy gifts for other people. Just for ourselves.
All poetic wordplay aside, the deals were, to borrow from the lingua franca of the Black Friday electronics-and-sports-store-raiding masses, Fuckin’ Holy Shit Awesome Wow. Things at Gap, for example, really were 50% off. All of the things! And at Ann Taylor LOFT, where I, fucking embarrassingly, find increasingly MORE cute things every time I go in, things were also 50% off. At J. Crew they were 30% off. At Macy’s, 20% off — my mom, delirous with joy, bought a $20 lip balm from Bobbi Brown just because. (It was not 20% off.) (It was returned promptly at sundown.)
My Big American Sale Day advice to you? 1) Go. Stop pretending to be cool and go shopping. You’re only uncool if you buy a TV on this day. 2) Care about nothing. Abandon your bills. Spend. Financial worries can wait till July. 3) Buy I guess like one gift for someone else. Maybe it’ll make you feel better, I don’t care.
How’d I do? Take a big fat look into the reality that could’ve been yours if you bucked up to Black Friday with Doris Rodrigue at the Maine Mall, New England’s Best Kept Secret for Stores thay you can Actually Find in New York but at which the Sale Sections are Actually Good and Abundant Becuase Fewer People are Fashionable in Maine than in New York (this is a fact btw).
Let me tell you a story about booties. Last fall I splurged on some lace-up black ones from TopShop that have like a 2.5-inch block heel. I wear them so much and love them so much I sometimes burst into tears and then flames when I catch a glimpse of them in a window I’m passing by. They make everything look better. They make my ankles look like stupid little toothpicks. They are practically disintegrating, so I knew I’d need a second similar pair to sub in to give them a break. These are that pair. These are the second-best booties. You know those cool girls who get on the Subway and are wearing cool roomy duffel coats and perfectly fitting jeans and slouchy sweaters and just the right sized infinity scarves? Those girls have these booties. They didn’t get them for $55 bucks on Black Friday with their Moms though now did they. Babies.
There are few things I hate more than unoriginal misogynistic web content, and fashion bloggers using the phrase “WE ARE OBSESSED WITH…” is one of them. But I am kind of pathological about LOFT’s lounge line. It’s a cool-girl in-the-know style-secret that you wouldn’t be privy to unless you followed one of the select fashion bloggers who shops with her stylish but nevertheless A MOM mom. (Hint: me.) This sweater, from that collection, is super-great quality, and, like most things from that collection, it nimbly transitions from layaround-day-coziness to workday cuteness (with the above dreamboots, a silk collared shirt, etc.). It was $60, I got it for $30, just like a prayer, it took me there.
OK technically this is a Christmas present from mom and dad, and it’s not technically mine yet, but it so so so will be in like 3 weeks and I am pretty worked up about that. The same way my mother enlightened me to the diamonds in the rough (up-top to anyone else who learned that phrase from watching Aladdin 500 times in childhood) that can be unearthed at Ann Taylor LOFT, I alerted her that for every 25 clingy lurex bodycon knit mistakes at Forever21, there is one gorgeous, endlessly wearable, surprisingly well-made piece that looks great on everyone. After this coat, she’s a believer — it’s thick, warm, substantial and the fur lining is zip-outtable for fall and spring. I’ve been buying only fussy wool lady coats for the past few years, so this casual rascal will be a nice respite and will make me look like one of those cool girls with the boots, etc.
There was way more, obv, but I don’t want you to morph into a jealous raging maniac and slaughter me. The good news for you is it’s Cyber Monday right now, so you can get a lot of the deals I mentioned above without even having to go out into public with your mom.
“At the end [of the museum tour], he felt very connected to [Anne]," says Braun, whose grandmother survived Auschwitz. "They had just showed him the pictures of movie stars in her room, and they said: ‘Maybe you would have been on that wall, Justin. She might have been a fan of yours.’ And he was touched by that.”—
Men Tell Huffington Post Which Women's Fashion Trends they Hate Most; Women Vacillate Between Being Bored and Being Like, Pissed
Shaking up the news world once again, The Huffington Post yesterday took on the gargantuan task of asking Men what things they don’t like about what Women wear. The answers were what about you’d expect — leggings are “boring,” high-waisted skirts “lack subtlety” (???) and there was a particularly passionate response to strapless bikini tops, which “make [women’s] shoulders look like a linebacker’s” and send their former admirers, no doubt, into a fit of homosexual panic — ”Am I gay?”
Also threatening: hair bows (“Dress your age!” [“Am I a pedophile?”]), high-waisted jeans (“They remind me of my mom!” [“Am I into my mom?”]), fold-over booties (“They look like foreskins!” [“AM I GAY?”]) and pantsuits (“You’re a woman. Not a man.” [“AM I A FUCKING HOMO OR WHAT?”])
So ladies, there you have it. Things you can’t wear anymore if you wish to catch the eye of any half-decent suitor during that fingers-spread-out high-fives dance at the courtship ball in Longbourn.
So what do you do if you can’t wear most varieties of tops, bottoms, jewelry, beauty products and accessories without making a dude feel gay like you look not hot?
I guess… this?
Oh and maybe like a hijab in a modest print over a tank top that has nipple cutouts.