Category: Fashionista

Aug 02

A little sparkle.

Remember earlier this week when I told you that James is a little spoiled?

Yeah. This is the part where I blush a little and then tell you how great he is.

A couple days ago, I was diagnosed with the Peripheral Neuropathy, which was hard for me mostly because I tend to panic whenever anything goes even slightly awry with anyone’s health. To be fair, what started as an upset stomach turned out to be Colon cancer that killed both my grandparents in a matter of month’s, and my dad’s last bout of leg pain turned out to be a blood clot that found its way up to his lungs. That was exciting. My second date with James I had to hang up after getting that news from my mother and do the,  “No, yeah, everything’s fine… Let’s hit that concert!” {James was totally a rock star about it. James is usually a total rock star about everything.}

James took me to the doctor, because I was terrified. I would have felt better if the doctor had laughed at me and told me that I was completely over-reacting. Most people want to be validated. I want to be told that I am nuts, and that nothing is wrong. Womp, womp, when I ended up diagnosed with something. Something neurological.

I kept a straight face when I explained it to James, and he calmly and gently told me that we could amputate my leg if I really wanted to, but only if the Aleve regimen doesn’t work.

And he surprised me with the Baroque pearl necklace I’ve been yammering about for the past week. It’s so lovely, I almost couldn’t believe it when I opened the car door and saw it sitting on the passenger seat.

I know. You can’t buy love. The giving and the getting of gifts in this relationship isn’t about that. He listens to me. I listen to him. It’s so fundamental, and I feel like it’s the missing link in a lot of relationships we’ve both seen fail. And one of the way we demonstrate that mutual tuned-in-ness is by spoiling each other a little when we can. {And, sometimes even when we can’t.}

It’s about adding a little sparkle to the other’s eye. Why not, right?

You’re only this young and in love once.

xo,

-MM.

0
comments

Nov 04

Things I Can Spare.

He seemed to be in a hurry, the total stranger. He had styled hair and a nice camel-colored houndstooth coat. He looked like he had had a morning like I had had. He wasn’t smiling.

I saw his metrocard reader flash the most unholy of all error messages when he swiped it: INSUFFICIENT FARE. He was going to run very late.

I had a transfer on my card, because I caught the bus this morning. I had enough on my card to get the both of us on the train. So I did. He was turning, a bit wild-eyed, looking for the metrocard vendor, trying to get out of the way. “Sir! Sir!” I called. He turned to look at me. “It’s ok. I’ve got you. Go ahead.”

And I swiped him through. Because I had the extra ride, and I could spare it. I gave a homeless man my last $2 last night because I could spare that, too. I have the blessed good fortune that leaves me with the security of knowing that if I go to the ATM, there’s more money there for me. I choose to live with the belief that if I were running late and my metrocard expired and a stranger was in a position to help, she would. I believe that because I live that way as often as possible.

If you can spare it, say thank you for the blessing and pay it forward.

The stranger looked at me with such genuine surprise and gratitude… His day got better. It’s 9:30 AM and I’ve given that to someone already. Maybe I’m not off to such a bad start, after all.

Seeing the homeless on the streets, suffering through the colder nights and malnutrition… It breaks my heart. I can’t save everyone, but I can try to help.

James and I–me, especially– need to weed out the excess clothing we have laying around our closets and drawers. Cluttering up our floor and hampers and desk chairs and couch.

And then, I’m taking it all straight to the local charities. There are people out there who can benefit from my years of hoarding clothing. There are people out there who can find far more necessity in the garments I take for granted.

And, if we’re being really honest here, most of what I own are all things I can spare.

So it’s time to be thankful for my blessings, then take a look at where others can benefit and pay it forward.

-M.

1
comments

Sep 04

Kindergarten lessons.

Early in my life, it became apparent that I inherited my mother’s razor-tongue and dry, sarcastic humor. Not long after this revelation, my mother taught me a simple, fundamental lesson. “If you can’t say something nice, you keep your mouth shut and your opinion to yourself.”

This had grown into an appreciation for a very specific kind of criticism: constructive criticism. Mom’s point, more acutely and in subtext, was that if you look hard enough, there is always something nice to be said. Even if there are negative sentiments in tandem.

The formula for giving negative feedback is very, very simple. You start with praise. You cite the area for improvement. You end with a positive note. Not only does this make the receiving party more receptive to your invaluable insight, but it creates an interaction from which nobody has to leave feeling trampled upon. I learned this more advanced principle in high school, but that fundamental tidbit about reigning in negativity and blunt honesty? I learned that in kindergarten. This leads me to believe that it is not, in fact, rocket science.

So when I stumbled across Adrien Field’s reaction to the Glamour Magazine model who slumped forward and showed the world what a woman who doesn’t have a team of stylists and make up artists fussing over her every second of the day looks like, my knee-jerk reaction was They give this guy a byline? This uneducated and shortsighted opinion should have been kept locked up in the small recesses of this dude’s tiny, dusty little brain.

Oh, but what would my mother think? Better stick to the formula and give this poor, simpleminded man the benefit of the doubt. Let’s first take a look at what he stated that merged on accuracy.

1. She is a very pretty woman, and Adrien credits her for such.

2. He states that his thoughts are just an opinion, then cited in an addendum to his original piece that he prefers his models stick-skinny and emaciated.

3. He brings up a semi-valid reasoning, that fashion to him is not about lauding the everyday woman, but rather about indulgence, opulence and a world of fantasy.

But there are areas of his audacious piece that I feel he could have phrased more tactfully.

1. Calling anyone fat is just mean. I don’t care who you are or what your perceived status in any given industry is. No title gives anyone the right to be so openly rude and so blatantly disregard the feelings of another human being in this crass manner. He should wholly be ashamed of himself for such a fundamental act of disrespect.

2. This woman did not put these photographs into the magazine under the pretense of being a supermodel. The point of the article was to focus on everyday women with normal bodies. We can’t all be super-models. (And to speak to the comment he made that I find singularly the most infuriating, the one about the model needing to unhand the cheeseburgers: the shape of her stomach more closely resembles a woman’s body after bearing children than it does after a McDonald’s binge. As it turns out, the girl is a plus-size model, age 20, and avidly plays softball and belly dances. Some women have a specific body type, and any girl who has glanced at her mother’s thighs and had a small heart attack over her curvy destiny will tell you: you can’t cheat genetics. It’s a fact of life, sir. Not a fact of fat.)

3. Adrien seems to be out of touch with two pivotal factors in contemporary print media content planning: the economy and the consumers. Glamour’s demographic encompasses women aged 18 to 49. Their mission statements and content speak to functional and practical garments, their pervasive theme being practicality. Anna Wintour can focus solely on the couture and highest-end designers and the skinniest stick-insect-model prototypes all she pleases; that’s what her readers expect when they collect their hefty Vogue September issue. But the reader of Glamour does not have a real vested interest in or practical use for a pair of $3,000.00 shoes. She reads Glamour for the warm wit and best-girlfriends-swapping-secrets take on beauty, health, fashion and social lives.

Which hones in on two pointed issues here: Adrien isn’t the demographic, and Glamour consequently does not speak to him. I’m not shocked; it’s not supposed to. Even if his post had been aimed at the actual content of the article instead of the subsequent reaction to it, he would not have liked it. It doesn’t play into his ideal of fashion– fantasy and unattainable body types. Which is to applaud Glamour for holding true to what it stands for as a publication and providing the Every Woman with relatable fashion and beauty content.

Now let’s end on a positive, shall we? There are enormous opportunities for lessons-learned here.

First, one must always consider the feelings of the people about whom they speak their opinions. In sure Adrien will not see this, nor would he care if he did, as I am, admittedly, a nobody. Still I’ve tried to be diplomatic in language and tone, and have tried to critique his opinions, not his person.

And this uproar has given us yet another priceless opportunity to discuss body imaging and positive self-imaging. It’s an issue that warrants constant and increased attention, and I’m glad that it’s back in cultural focus

Most importantly, I don’t want criticism like Adrien’s to stop other brave women– and I do believe that model to be brave, knowing that she was willingly opening herself to such scrutiny– from putting themselves out there. The first steps toward creating new outlets and facets in any industry is challenging, fashion not the least difficult culture on that list. Women who applauded this model, whose name is Lizzi Miller, applauded a woman who advocated for the acceptance of normalcy. Who normalized something with which most women struggle on a daily basis. And no, I’m not talking about weight. I’m talking about body image. They’re distinct.

And yes, I appreciate that sensationalism was probably Adrien’s motive here; chances are good he did this to boost traffic to his website and generate buzz around his name. In which case, and to his merit, he was successful. Many of my outraged friends read the article after it hit Twitter.

Bravo to Glamour, too, for embracing the sensationalism– even the ugly bits– with grace and poise, and their signature wry wit in this special article.

Regardless, I encourage anyone who was affected to decide how they’d have liked to see this play out differently, and get involved. Use the links below, educate yourself, and find your voice.

Dove Campaign for Real Beauty Stand Up, Stand Out Girl Scouts USA

But don’t forget mother’s formula. She does, afterall, absolutely always know best.

-M.

0
comments

Aug 06

Mallory & Nora

I absolutely hate mushrooms.

I know! I know! You probably love them, and are deeply offended that I’d say something so atrocious. You probably can’t understand how I claim to be a foodie at all, being so stupid as to think behavior like hating mushrooms is acceptable.

Well, I do. I hate them. I dislike their flavor and, most especially, their texture. I don’t mind the way they smell raw, but cooked they’re the most unappealing thing my palate has encountered. I just can’t get past it; I just hate mushrooms.

Why is this a problem?, you ask. Well, I’ll tell you. My hatred of mushrooms is an inner conflict causing unspeakable turmoil because with all the passion and fervor and conviction that I hate mushrooms, I also adore Nora Ephron. And if she found out I hate mushrooms, I fear that would be the end of what would otherwise blossom into a beautiful lifelong friendship.

All kidding aside, Nora Ephron’s writing has easily had the most profound affect on my development as a writer. (Incidentally, her writing is also why I’ve had to explain to James on more than one occasion why it’s acceptable for me to pause in front of a mirror and gaze lovingly at my 23-year-old neck.) Apart from articulating and lending honest personification to what it means to come of age as a woman, she’s a riot, and her perspective on life is as refreshing as it is grounding, and let’s be honest, even if you’re not “into” reading essays on how awful purses are or how anxious you’d be making dinner for a chef, even if you don’t care about Harry or Sally or whether the people in Seattle ever slept, you could use a good laugh. And Nora doles those out, no matter what the topic. One of her book jackets boasts my favorite literary review clip of all time: “Nora Ephron can write about anything better than anybody else can write about anything.” Courtesy of the New York Times. Not that they know good writing.

If I could grow up to be anybody, it would be an amalgam of my mother, Ruth Reichl and Nora Ephron. (So I’d still look like me, only with the ability to throw a killer dinner party.) When I get stuck writing, I ask myself what Nora would do. Then I wander into the kitchen for a snack. And when I found out that Nora had written Julie & Julia, I almost died. Of happiness, mind you, but I’d have been dead all the same.

Every time I see the trailer (despite its somewhat leery reviews), I yearn a bit in my heart to go out, buy Julia’s cook book and go from cover to cover, making every recipe, too. I would also blog about it, but I’d grow as a person, and whine less, and not alienate James and generally avoid all the things I’ve heard Julie Powell did. I would not read her book, unless Nora called me up and told me specifically that it was the only way for which I could redeem myself in her eyes for hating mushrooms so thoroughly. And then I would read the book and invite Nora out for Coke Zero (which I do not drink) and salad (which I do enjoy, as long as it’s void of mushrooms). Or cherries. I’d invite her out for Coke Zero and cherries.

This brings us to the next set of problems, though. 1. My stove does not know how to cook. Even when I do things like horribly botch brine recipes and marinate chicken in salt water for 12 hours instead of 1 hour, the bird comes out moist and delicious, making James happy in the form of chicken tacos. Except, the oven doesn’t heat properly, so half of it is more done than the other half (and I’ve been cautioned about white meat cooking different than dark meat, so I know that I should panic, according to the cook book). I have to rotate it, and then cook it more, without risking overcooking the already cooked half. The cats try to get into the stove. All hell breaks loose. I swear I’ll never cook again. I curse, and chase the cats into the bathroom, and angrily carve the chicken (after letting it rest for ten minutes, mind you). I sulk a bit, and pout, and then an image in the cook book catches my eye and I start scheming about how I can turn the chicken into something savory that invovles a crepe. I am hopeless with sticking to conviction when it comes to giving up a passion.

But the second issue! 2. I hate mushrooms. And to cook French cuisine, you need to be pretty evenly unaverse to fungus in all its supposedly delicious forms. Even if my oven didn’t plot to ruin everything I put into it, my loathesome sentiments toward mushrooms makes me entirely impossible as an aspiring French chef.

… Who am I kidding? All I care to learn to make now, anyway, are baguettes. Bread with fatty, salty butter… Mm. It’s what mine and Nora’s dreams are made of. But alas! I hate mushrooms.

I also dislike the idea of re-forging the wheel of another woman’s transport to fame. So, 3. I don’t want to do what the supposedly-whiney, non-revolutionary, uninteresting young woman from Queens did. Because I’m certain I could do it better. Well, because I’m certain I could do it better if my oven worked and I didn’t hate mushrooms so much.

Regardless, I’m adding “Have lunch with Nora Eprhon.” to my life list. Because at the very least, what I’ve learned in doing my preliminary research on the film Julie & Julia, it’s that I truly do love Nora Ephron and her writing equally as much as I hate mushrooms.

Perhaps more. I’ll let you know down the line, after lunch. Until then, Elephant and I are going to lounge and read more Ephron Essays. It’s what we do best on warm nights.

Elephant, lounding on

-M.

1
comments

Jul 13

Gravity

I’m hyper-sensitive to gravity. I stumble, trip, slip and falter more than the normal person. This week, too, I’ve taken to dropping stuff. Not just a simple slip-of-the-fingers, though. Huge, indelicate acts of gracelessness.

I reach for a pen and it slips our of my hand, flying across the office. I thrust my hand forward to grab it and I upset a glass of water and the pen-holder. I grab for the papers the water is about to ruin and I knock over a stack of shoeboxes, which fall onto the adding machine, which spews adding tape everywhere. My boss walks in. What happened? Well. I needed a pen.

And my luck with pistachio donuts from Balthazar has been exceptionally foul this week. Of the three pistachio donuts I’ve acquired, I’ve been able to eat 1.75. That’s not very good. In fact, that’s just barely more than 58%. How the hell is your margin of error so high on eating DONUTS, Mallory? you ask! They’re the least confrontational of all treat-food, you tell me!

I know, people. I know. Trust me, it’s not like I dropped the donuts deliberately. It was more like it was when my sister and I were kids and we’d run around slapping things out of one another’s hands. The other day, my bag ripped open. And the donut fell out in slow motion onto the sidewalk. The dirty Spring Street sidewalk. My WHOLE dobut. Just– crrrrch! Bag ripped open, donut plunged to the ground. Bounced twice. Rolled. Landed pistachio frosting side up. Moment of silence, everyone. That was my afternoon snack.

Then this morning my last bite of donut literally fell out of my mouth. I did not miss. I did not drop it en route. I had it through my lips, and it propelled itself forward with a force as though someone had smacked me upside the back of my head , off the tips of my fingers as I howled “NoOoOo!!” The donut bit ended up on the ground. Passersby looked at me like I was  a total idiot. “Didn’t she have it IN HER MOUTH?” their silent eyes mocked me.

To reward myself for not crying either time, however, I allowed myself Five Guys for lunch. And since I didn’t spill any of THAT on my white shirt, I’m allowing myself ice cream on my second break. Who knows, perhaps Gravity– my nemesis– has taken the day off.

Don’t want to jinx it, though. So I won’t be grabbing another pistachio donut anytime soon.

0
comments

Jun 24

Finding Touch.

Hello, old friends. It is Mallory. I am out from under my rock, and I’d like to chat it up with you.

Oh, I jest. I wasn’t under a rock, I was under a thesis. And then Boston. And moving. At any rate, today was a day to connect with old friends, old soulmates and The Reasons I’m Glad I Never Have to Date Again.

New Old Favorites include Tiffany, who’s still in Boston, but we forgive her. Allison, who has reminded me I need to finish reading Skinny Bitch and kick my blog into higher gear. (Allison’s blog can be found here, and you’d be well-advised to prepare for a good, hard laugh. Her take on life is priceless.) Sarah, who’s an adult now, and moving to Atlanta for business, and Aaron, who can still play a guitar better than any other boy I know.

And, because this won’t make for an awkward conversation when James reads this in an hour– I’ve picked out my wedding dress!

No, I’m not even close to being engaged. No, we haven’t even talked about anything even loosely pertaining to marriage. Yes, he has spent the past two hours playing video games. But, look! J. Crew has BEAUTIFUL GOWNS for NOT A LOT OF MONEY!

This is exciting for me, because I am not two things. 1. I am not one to plan her wedding out ahead of time, and also not one to take risks. Knowing that a brand I know and love will ship me a dress pretty much guaranteed to fit my body without much fuss = confirmation that weddings don’t actually need planning, and that other women fuss unnecessarily, and 2. I am not a girl who expects her father to pay for anything anymore, not even her wedding. I’ve been financially independent too long to foist that off on my father, who still has my mother and sister to worry about.

I’m not getting married. And for this occasion, I’ve selected for you, my Not Getting Married Wedding Outfit! J.Crew is Flash so I can’t swipe the images, but, for your viewing pleasure nonetheless:

The Gown.      The Shoes.    The Bling.

Go ahead. Picture me in the getup. You’re welcome.

0
comments

Jun 08

Grey Days

Today is a grey, dismal day, dark clouds looming over the City. Which is lovely, as today is my first day off since last Wednesday.

I’ve been up since 6AM, when the boyfriend had to go to work, and the coffee didn’t make itself today, so I wandered around the apartment until I finally ended up at my computer. The computer where I had left my cookies the night before. The day started looking up.

You should peruse the fashion blogs, the little voices said, happily munching on cookies.

I’m taking fashion classes this summer, so technically… It’s research. But now every time I open my internet browser since getting my computer fixed (which, yes, took me since last November) I get sad– even with cookies– because My Fashion Life, my preferred fashion blog, had been discontinued.

Harrod’s Girl and Barney’s Girl co-wrote the blog, and they’ve since split endeavors. Barney’s Girl is lovely, and her new sight is here for your fashion pleasure.

Harrod’s Girl, however, is the one who offers us coffee, and that wins me over hands-down, any day of the week. She also had a lovely post about glowy, goddess-like makeup for summer. I like her take, and I think the idea will work for me, even though I have mutant-like white skin, complete with freckles.

I am in the market for a good, non-orange, non-sparkly lip gloss that is peach and shimmery. Or even pinkish-peach and shimmery. Just not orange and sparkly. Anything but orange and sparkly.

I’ll probably peruse Sephora later, on a quest to equip myself for the hazardous beauty hurdles that summer entails. First, though, I’m going to survive the grey of the morning with the banter of Meredith and Cristina on Grey’s Anatomy.

And I guess I should suck it up and make myself some coffee.

0
comments

Oct 14

Food vs. Fashion

Alright, not for nothing, the thing I love the most about working in the Meat Packing District is that every day is shopping day. I window shop– obsessively– because, what can I say? I’m a girl who likes to look. And in my neighborhood, the exceptionally chic tends to stroll through my door on a daily basis. I don’t even have to actively seek anymore– the fashion comes to me!

But this weekend, The Food and Wine Festival has taken over my lovely, quiet little neighborhood and all of the sudden, it’s like the suburbs have realized that this is their ticket into one of the best-hidden neighborhoods in all of Manhattan. And they’re out. In their khakis. And their Crocs.

Now, for the record, Christine has gotten me to ebb a bit– a VERY SMALL bit– on the whole CROCS ARE SATAN campaign I normally run. She and her spontaneously combusting knee (it’s full of lava, I warn you… LAVA!) wear Croc flip flops because they’re comfortable, give her good support and do not make me instantly want to claw my eyes out at their less-visually-abrasive appearance. That said… I still loathe Crocs. And Khakis.

And they’re all here, in my chic little corner of the city, with their frizzy perms and deep-set Suburban Mommy tans and oh my word, the jewelry… Over-polished, over-done, not-tasteful, excessive and GOLD. Everywhere is GOLD. And Wonderbras. Is that what happens when you let a man whisk you away to the suburbs to raise his children? You eventually wander back into the Meat Packing District half a decade later, fake tanned, with your girls perked up and your wrists laden with bracelet after bracelet he’s given you to prove the thing with his secretary meant nothing, and that you’re the one true love of his life?

Oop– my cynicism is showing. This is what happens when you let your heathen children run wild on the normally quiet sidewalks, screaming and getting underfoot before I am properly caffeinated for the day. The urge to swat with the October issue of W is almost more than I can resist.

What happened to me? I was a nanny, once upon a time. I don’t HATE children, I just don’t like them before the espresso has seeped its way into my veins, effectively transforming me into something reselblant of a human being. I am a bit of a neighborhood snob, though. All the tourists (and yes, if you’re from New Jersey and have your children, a stroller, five bags one dog, and enough snack food to satiate a small army, you qualify as a tourist, even if it only took you 30 minutes to get here) mean lots of looking and very little buying for my tiny, not-child-proof store. Hopefully the good weather will keep everyone out in the sunshine, the kids will all be tired within the next couple hours, and only the very laid back European clients I love so dearly will bother to wander as far down the block as my store happens to sit.

Perhaps my cranky mood also has to do with the fact that my room still is not clean, my homework is still not done, Sunday is the day at work that’s supposed to be easy, as all the locals are in bed with hangovers until at least 3pm and the staff usually includes Matthew, so I don’t have to be the one acting in charge. With which, of course, there were a couple issues yesterday, and last week, but I’m going to try to resolve them before I write about them in here. And I’ll leave out names. Because I’m too lazy to bother to change them.

Ok. Deep breath. My BlackBerry– God love it– just reminded me that I should be at work. Now. So, wrapping up and pressing on… Today, I think I’ve just decided, shall be a good day.

xoxo

-mm

0
comments

Nov 20

In which there are bad choices, good realizations and sirens.

I have to be brief, because I have a list of things to do tonight before I’m allowed to pass out that makes even the most organized color-coding list junkie cower in fear. So, I share with you: My Lists:

Things I’ve Done In The Past 48 Hours That I’m Proud Of:

-Told Pace Security- convincingly- that I’m an Espionage Major.

-Made a barista blush by locking eyes with him and saying in a come-hither tone, “Iced grande Chai latte, please… Make it dirty.” And then I threw in a wink and a grin and his face reddened like a whore in church.

-Bought fierce-but-grown up shoes. That I’ll be able to wear forever, because they’re classic and wardrobe-staple-y.

-Realized what I have to do this week to make the next three years of my life easier.

-Giggled with small children in the store (instead of the standard, irritated-glower).

-Not rushed Grandma off the phone.


Things I Absolutely Need to Get Done Tonight:

-E-mail to research librarian about Thesis.
-Dig out old papers on Final Girl for Thesis.
-Analysis of Nora Ephron and first draft of Satire for Independent Study.
-Photographs of things on my desk for Self-Portrait Collage.
-Something, anything, for my Studio Class, which I’ve sorely neglected.
-Fashion Resume and Graduate School Applications
-Study for those pesky GREs.
-LAUNDRY
-A pedicure.

Things I  Have Done So Far:

-Contemplated suspending my Dating Embargo, but only briefly.

-Rediscovered my secret, hidden blog.
-Written in it.

So. The old blog is now new and fresh, and not secret. I’m not sure how I’m going to talk shit about everyone, because I can tell you right now I’m too lazy to make up aliases for people. And I’d get them confused. And then I’d change them, and slip one day and use a real name… I’m too big of a mess for discretion

Guess that means I’ll just have to start playing nice. My, my… What has the world come to?

xoxo

-mm

0
comments