Friday, December 9, 2011

Is your car a hybrid?

Range: 17 miles. Weather: bloody dreadful and destination: 37 minutes and 25 miles. This is what i found out from my "hybrid" car yesterday. I used to have an Acura tsx until i totaled it into a tree. No it wasn't raining, snowing or night time and i was not drunk. It was 10 am, i was on my "free period" from high school, completely sober and about 1/2 a mile away from my house.

 As precocious as it may sound,  i have never pumped my own gas. So when i had a range of 17 miles, i drove to our regular gas station (which was conveniently on the way). I sat in my car for about 8 minutes before realizing that the owner wasn't acknowledging me and that their sketchy half assed "open" sign was turned off. I was already late (due to a wardrobe malfunction) so i revved up my acting skills by looking both desperate and hopeless. I honked my horn  (three times) and put my two hands together ( like i was five) pleading for the owner to get off the cell phone and pump my gas. I guess the cute factor wasn't working because instead of shaking his head, he put up both fists into a big X and then pointed to the sign on the door that said they closed at 8. 

At that point, i decided i would have to man up. I found a gas station that was actually open, Hess. As i didn't have time to use google, Wikipedia or e-how i decided to use common knowledge. Lift nozzle, place, press. It sounded simple, but needless to say i stood their for about 16 minutes, pretending i knew what i was doing. I was close to tears, the screen had a bunch of zeros on it, and the stupid gas nozzle was not cooperating. I was in heels, leggings, and a black tie up top with a head full of blonde and pumping my own gas at 9 pm. This was not safe. 

Just as i was about to give up and kick the bloody thing/cry hysterically i see this man on the other side of the station saying something. He wasn't cute, and looked old so i figured/hoped he was offering to help me pump my gas. I said "yes i need help pumping my gas!" he looked bewildered and didn't move. So then i progressed to say "okay, don't worry" and sat in my car. The next thing i knew he was at my window saying "all i wanted to know was is your car a hybrid?" I sat there expressing that i couldn't pump my gas, and that yes my car was a hybrid. From there he kept trying to keep a conversation flowing by asking me multiple questions including why i was on long island. I figured that if i said the words "i go to school" he would mathematically calculate that he was to old for me. That of course failed and he then suggested we "grab a drink sometime". He grabbed my phone and put his very (not wanted) number and name in.  I drove off, without gas, and with a sketchy memory of a bald guy named frank trying to pick me up at a Hess station at 9 pm. With the pick up line "is that car a hybrid". 

After resistance to ever want to leave my car (EVER) again, i managed to find a different gas station. I got out, swiped my card and lasted 7 minutes before seeing three drunks with four lokos stumbling out of a pick up truck. I stopped the nozzle, plugged it back in, closed my cap and drove off. When i finally got to my boyfriends house it was 10.15 pm. I walked into his house and heard all these screams and curse words coming from upstairs, i hesitantly walked up the stairs to find three things: a chair, a 50 inch TV, and call of duty. And a boyfriend who was more interested in shooting people, and talking screaming to strangers through a head piece than me. I sat on my cell phone in disbelief and started to study his room. He then had the audacity, to tell me that i was bad luck, because he usually does great in the game and just got defeated. 

As i was observing his room, i noticed that his calender (above his desk) was still on November. I told him that this was bad luck, and in his video-game frenzy he told me to change it. I walked to the calender and saw a big heart on the 21st. Knowing that our anniversary was the 10th of every month, i decided to flip through the rest of it. Starting from July onwards, there was a heart around the 21st of each and every month. At this point i decided to ask what was going on. He said that his ex had brought him the calender, and marked their anniversary. I was flabbergasted and told him that if i were to ever buy my boyfriend a calender, it would not be of landscapes, nor would i ever mark our unpredicted future on a calender.

As you can imagine my anger level between frank (the bald guy at hess), call of duty (the shooting video game), and my boyfriends calender (from his ex) was equating to one furious mood. I sat there in silence, crossed my arms and waited 15 MORE minutes before he got the hint.  He suggested we go grab drinks and as my night could not get any worse, this time i agreed.

Usually my Thursday nights consists of three things: Champagne, Chanel, and Caviar. Not tonight. Tonight would be the night i end up sitting in a booth, watching my boyfriend watch the football game. With two strawberry daqoris, two long island ice teas,  nachos with 10,000 toppings, and a cell phone to entertain me. Something must have caught my attention because while playing angry birds in my (very) drunken state, i look up to find my lovely boyfriend checking out these two girls. I'm talking eyes about to pop out of his head, sly meets sneeky smile, and a vibe of suspision. I asked him who had just walked by, and he refused to "dignify my question" with an answer.

I watched the girls walk out and spotted three things; Uggs, laughter and sweat pants. Horrified i repeated the question as to who the mystery (and slovenly)  girls were, and asked him if he had slept with them in the past. He shrugged his shoulders and then said no one walked by.  Five questions later, and two drinks (intoxicated) he finally admits he "thought he knew one of them". I was beyond pissed off that he had lied. Indicating that i was in fact going crazy and i did not watch anyone walk by. He then had the nerve to defend himself, claiming that they didn't walk by. They walked to the left and then to the right, past the door and then took another right to the exit. Avoiding our table, not "walking by" our table.

When we finally got back to his house i was way to pissed (mentally, emotionally and alcohol-licly) to drive back to my house. I agreed to sleepover and he then decided that he would romantically put on this show. The show was called "MANswers". The ultimate man survival guide. For 2 hours "we" learnt which vegetables can cause erectile dysfunction, how to have sex while driving a motor cycle, how to binge drink without brain damage, and how to know if "shes" a screamer.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

Joan rivers.

For 78 years old, Joan Rivers looks phenomenal. If you ask me, she looks younger now than she does when she was in her mid 30's. So did she just get lucky with not looking like a plastic cat women? (i wont mention names) Plastic surgery can either go horribly wrong, or drastically right. So would you risk it? Ever since the movie Awake starting Jessica Alba and Hayden Christensen was released, i have been absolutely timorous of surgery..and anesthesia.

Every risk possible, i have frantically analyzed. I won't even get my wisdom teeth pulled, because i'm afraid that i will wake up during the procedure or even worse, that i wont wake up after the procedure! So how do people do it? How do people risk there lives in order to feel beautiful!? i'm still sitting in awe trying to figure out this (not so simple) answer.

Anyway enough on plastic surgery and back to reality. Apparently NYC has had a weather malfunction and the very anticipated and overdue snow forecast, is indeed rain. The only good part of rain is getting to wear my Gucci rain boots (i kid you not). Other than that it's a big dangerous, umbrellas flying inside out, outfit ruin-er muddy mess. Especially when your walking the streets of Manhattan. Instead of walking in and out of tourists looking up (at the buildings) and not where there walking, your focused on dodging umbrellas. Mainly advertisements for hotels, or companies.

 In fact umbrellas can speak wonders about a New Yorker. If you have a Henri Bendel umbrella, your prepared. If you have an ugly black flimsy umbrella (that flips inside out every 5 minutes) your hopeless. Congratulations on just waisting $25 at a vendor who lures people in (with rain). If you have a hotel umbrella your probably a tourist or maybe just a creep who steels umbrellas, and lastly if you have a bright pink umbrella with yellow spots that folds into your bag and reads tool: your name is Mercedes Chloe.

Usually i wouldn't be spotted dead presenting such an obnoxious umbrella to the world, but the truth is when a head of blonde is underneath you stop caring. The smirks, sneers and simpers all have the same meaning to me: sod all. If you love me, congratulations. If you hate me, congratulations. And if you think i shouldn't be blogging and laugh at everything i have to say/write once again..congratulations!

Kelly Cutrone was the start to my nonchalant attitude, as well as songs like "look at me now" and "walking on a dream". I've learnt that 70% of people take me way to seriously, i'm fluent in sarcasm and unless your someone i love (which i doubt) i really don't care your opinion, outlook or outtake on me.

Friday, December 2, 2011

Pretty woman

My roots need touching up, i have chipped nail polish and i'm hung over. With a sunset beaming into my apartment, and the thought of vodka taunting me. Should i jump off the tram now or later? Yesterday i was having a Martha Stewart moment attempt, and decided to cook a pizza from scratch. My "boyfriend" was coming over and i thought this would be the perfect opportunity to get in the Christmas spirit. I made my version of a candy cane martini ( with vodka, a sugar rim and a candy cane hanging out of it). Let's just say the more i drunk, the better my drink became. I slipped on a satin red dress, put on red lipstick, and drunk my "martini" gracefully while waiting for him to arrive. One hour later, and two martinis down my phone rang. Of course I'm not the smartest of people (when intoxicated) so i jump of my black leather bar stool to grab the phone,  spilling my martini in my lap while getting told that my boyfriends being sent up, and will be ringing my doorbell in two minutes (by my doorman).

He then See's my pizza (which is now freezing cold), ignoring my lovely dress and lipstick, cuts himself a slice, and progresses to tell me that i used the wrong sauce. At that point i was ready to give up on the night, but instead i decided to drink more. At this point my vodka tasted like water, i had forgotten about the pizza and all of my problems started to fade away. As well as my sobriety.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

M and ken?

So as I've been craving a massive 10,000 calorie crumbs cupcake, listening to Rhianna's new CD, and resisting Christmas shopping all in the same week, i have one word: UGH. December is finally here which means snow, presents, and weight gain. Every single Christmas i manage to gain at least 2-5 pounds from chocolate, cake, and cold weather. Mathematically speaking, if i know that i am going to gain those five dreadful pounds each and every winter, i should know how to prevent it ( or just go to the gym/stop being a fat cow).

Getting me to a gym is harder than plucking eyelashes. I feel good once i'm there, or after i work out but pre-gym?forget it. I would rather sit home, watching reruns of the OC or grays anatomy than be on a treadmill (on an endless road). Clearly this has to change, as well as my mindset. I need to realize the basics:

a) workout clothes can be sexy
b) you could meet guys (who are also sexy)
c) who cares if the wanker next to you (twice your age) is going faster than you

Tomorrow never comes with me. I always say tomorrow this, tomorrow that. The time is now! So everyone needs to step up to the plate, and start caring about their health. If your in a relationship and have totally let yourself go (aka me) December is the time to change this! Do whatever you have to do, to engage the new you. Dye your hair, paint your nails, tan, get a wax, shop and most importantly: head to the gym and trade in that Creme brulle frappachino for a salad.

Monday, November 28, 2011

blueberry apple crumble.

So if the title of this post didn't make you lick your lips, your not human (or a fan of pies). Ironically i met my current boyfriend through my little brother, whose  going through a call of duty/ nerf gun stage. But who am i to judge? When i was his age, i had a dark blonde bob (ear length), bangs, and a closet full of Juicy. All of which, i considered "trendy" at the time.

Looking back, i laugh at everything that used to upset me. I vividly remember my fifth grade crush. His name was Brendan, and a jock in the making. I was going through an awkward man repelling stage so he didn't even think twice about "asking me out". He wouldn't even share his cinnamon Altoids with me. Word of advice: If a boy isn't willing to share his cinnamon Altoids with you, guess what? his just not that into you.

If you haven't purchased the book "His just not that into you" written by Liz Tuccillo, you immediately need to rush to the bookstore (or amazon), and do so. Its a no nonsense, tough love, get the hell out of fairy tale mode-novel. Sure: love happens, fate can happen, and maybe even fairy tales occur, but at the end of the day i can guarantee that, you will date an ass hole. Whose just not that into you. So why do women date ass holes? do we lower ourselves down to there level? or do we set ourselves up for disaster? I don't care if his hung like a horse, has an accent, Gucci loafers, or any other enticing detail you set on your pros and cons list. At the end of the day if he hurt you once, he will hurt you twice and if his an ass hole once, his going to be an ass hole twice!

Most people stay in relationships because they are scared of the unknown. They are scared of ending up like the women in the supermarket. Pushing a cart full of Lean Cuisine meals, Luna bars, and kitty litter. Or the women that sits in your local Starbucks in a bright red scarf, with a new date every Monday from The truth of the matter is: unless your in your late twenties, you shouldn't even be worried about finding the "one". Have fun with your life, travel the world, date around and don't settle. The best quality a girl can have is confidence. So we all need to embrace this. Until a man formally asks you to be his girlfriend, you have no ties to him. If you get asked on dates, go. Why miss out? Everything happens for a reason, and everyone comes in and out of your life for a reason. Your youth won't last forever, but regrets will!

Friday, November 25, 2011

More Coco Chanel than Coq Au Vin.

Indolent  (ˈɪndələnt) — adj
1. disliking work or effort; lazy; idle (aka me for my four days of nonblogging. So please excuse and enjoy the very long and informative post)

I was just in the deepest sleep of my life (there's no such place, like home).  Until my dad came knocking down my door, asking for my car keys. To drive himself to the gym... at 6 am. Multiple times in my life I have wished to have my fathers work ethic, or my grandfathers. However I find myself in a quarter life crisis, with an indecisive personality. Whenever I'm home on Long Island, I wish to return to Manhattan and whenever I'm in Manhattan I miss my family. Whenever I work, I wish I wasn't working and whenever I don't work, I wish I was. You get the jist.

On a happier note, or fattier I should say thanksgiving was yesterday. Usually for thanksgiving my family heads into NYC. We stay at The St Regis, watch the parade and eat at Adour Alain Ducasse ( within the St Regis) this avoids arguments, stress, and food poisoning from my mothers cooking. It's a tradition. This year was different though, we stayed home on Long Island. My mom brought a turkey (as well as 3D  turkey name holders), vegetables and potatoes. After nine years of living in the states, she was ready to give her British version of a thanksgiving dinner.

Almost 24 hours later, I'm happy to say that no one died from her cooking (except the turkey).  Growing up my mom never cooked, so when she does it is a very rare/scary experience. Everyone always says that women have to cook to be good wives (and blah blah blah.).  So recently I have tested my own cooking skills.

I never took home ec, or cooking classes in high school. So when I say I'm a beginner (chef) who googles terms like "saute" and what  "lemon zest?" is, I'm not kidding. In 10th grade I told my boyfriend (at the time) that I would cook him an Italian dinner. I went to stop and shop and got ingredients to make lasagna. Tomato sauce, ricotta cheese, the lasagna pieces, crushed red pepper, mozzarella and everything in between. I was feeling confident, and all Martha Stewart. My mom agreed to let me use the kitchen, and took my siblings out so that I could be a great girlfriend and cook Italian for my non Italian boyfriend (which doesn't make much sense either). Unbeknown to me, you had to cook the lasagna noodles before you prepared it. So long story short, I had assembled lasagna without cooking it first, and the whole thing came out rock hard. Smelling delicious.Yet inedible.  Just like your hot gay best friend, so date-able, so superb, so compassionate (for moments when Barneys tell you they no longer have the Manolo Blanc suede pump in a size 7) and yet untouchable. And more in love with Brad Pitt than you ever were 5 years ago. That was my lasagna.

Luckily I had cooked early enough so that if things went wrong, I would have a backup plan. I was 16 at the time, and had a budget. So without hesitation I googled Mario's pizza, and ordered two homemade lasagnas. They came fairly quickly, so I managed to slide them into a glass dish and stuck it in my unheated oven. When my ex finally came, I told him dinner would be ready in 15 minutes and briskly turned my oven on. He was smitten when he found out I cooked, and even more so when he tried the delicious "homemade" lasagna that I had been cooking all day. I then had the title of a "good cook" with a time frame of 20 minutes (all screw ups aside), mess free, ingredient free, and virtually a free pass on a good meal. I had fallen in love. Why cook, when you can get somewhere else to do it for you? Throw it in a dish, and take credit (after all you did have to re-heat it up). To this day my ex never knows I didn't cook, and probably never will unless reading this post. As Sarah Jessica Parker once said " more Coco Chanel than coq au vin" and if I were a man, I would much rather prefer Gabrielle over coq au vin..even if it does mean storing shoes in the oven and ordering take out for the next 360 days.

Then there was the penne alla vodka scenario. I was dating an 100% Italian boy ( born and raised in the US). My friends had always warned me to never date an Italian. 1) because their mama's boys 2) you would have bad in laws if you wasn't Italian and they hated you and 3) you're cooking will never be as good as there mothers. I was never one to listen, so I brushed it off and continued to google recipes for the next 2 &1/2 hours. I managed to find a five star penne alla vodka recipe online, which had about 684 positive reviews. I figured that if 684 people in the world can do it, so could i. So I set out on an adventure to the food emporium midtown and brought a variety of items to decorate my fridge with (other than the Grey Goose, Verve Cliquot and eye masks). I came back to my apartment and shortly after the chef critic "Italian Stallion" (as he referred to himself as) arrived. I put on a football game, led him to my couch and demanded he stay put. Apparently those simple directions were to hard to follow because within seconds i found him standing behind me, critiquing  how to make REAL penne alla

 About 40 minutes later,  constant interferal, wise remarks and one angry women (me) the sauce was almost done. I had put garlic bread in the oven and then Mr "Italian Stallion" stood up and quote: said " I'm not eating that. How about you cook your version and I will cook mine, and then we can compare whose is better?" I sat there flabbergasted, and for .5 minutes thought the audacious comment was a joke, until he tried to take over my kitchen. I then smelt something burning, and had remembered that the garlic bread was on 500 degrees and on broil in my oven. Close to flames, hard as a brick, and pitch black describes the outcome of that bread. I tried to work around it, cutting off the black bits with scissors but as you can imagine, this didn't really work out to good. Nonetheless, I decided to put the bread on the table, as well as MY version of the pasta, a salad, and some drinks. This wasn't good enough though, so Mr Italian then decided he would make his own chicken, with my chicken. I said yes while cringing my teeth and sat at the table waiting. Eventually he brought his chicken to the table, that looked repulsive. It was chicken breast, but for some peculiar reason it looked like he had snapped the wings of a live chicken, breaded them, and then thrown them on a dish! I was horrified.

When we were finally ready to eat, (and I was finally ready for this night to be over) he sat down and tentatively took a bite. I can't even say that he looked like a deer in headlights, was worse than that. He didn't even pretend to enjoy my hard cooked ( and yes, I really did cook this time) dinner! He took about one spoon full, and then declared that next time "we should try his version." I told him there wouldn't be a next time if he didn't be quiet and then continued to text my friends the unbelievable night I had, and what a splendid penne alla vodka I made.

Lessons learnt: 
a) I can be a good cook when I want to be.
b) tune everyone else out when cooking
c) my penne alla vodka sauce is amazing
d) My cooking will never be as good as an Italian mother (in the eyes of an Italian son).

Chanel Birthday Cake 

Monday, November 21, 2011

demure vix

On a sweet and simple trip to duane reade, my doorman stopped to tell me that my sunglasses made me look like lady gaga. I immediately stopped in my track, threw the glasses at his head, jumped behind the desk and slapped him. OK, not quite. But that's what i wanted to do. Growing up i was always taught that if you don't have something nice to say, don't say it. Yet in this day and age, i think it's the opposite.

We all lie, minimize, exaggerate and avoid confrontation to spare or protect peoples feelings. Stephanie Ericsson once wrote that the bald face lie doesn’t toy with perceptions- it argues with them. It doesn’t try to refashion reality, it tries to refute it.  So are lies told to protect people rather than hurt people? Does dishonesty ever come in handy, or is it prevention of moving forward in life? Unless its a tabloid on Brangelina, Elle, Vogue or the latest Cosmopolitan magazine, your probably very unlikely to spot me reading. Excluding English assignments and sparknotes.

Stephanie Ericsson was indeed an English assignment. I am constantly wondering why people lie. After living in Manhattan for over a year, and meeting multiple promoters who all claim to be attending NYU, i have learnt that lying is second nature. Unless your a pro con artist or Sherlock Holmes, the truth will always (somehow) emerge. Once that happens you pretty much have a new fashion statement, of the word liar stapled to the front of your head.

They always say that a tiger can not change it's stripes, or a leopard can not change it's spots. So can a liar change his or her habits? I once met a guy that was so critical of everything and so brutally honest...that he had to come up with a lie, to defend himself. He told me (and no this is not a joke) that the reason he was so honest, was because the left side of his brain was overactive.

Confusing? yes. Gullible? no.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

Bridges and tunnels

A few months Back, my moms friend shared her terminology for when women date men bellow them. Hence the tittle of today's post. Bridges are the women, while tunnels are the men. So why do women settle? There are over 80,082,78 people living in New York City( according to wikipidia) so am I wrong to say that absolutely no one should settle? While wearing sunglasses big enough to cover half my unmakeuped face, velvet black leggings and a black shirt acquired from Topshop on Oxford street, i sat pondering the answer to this question. 

And just like that, it hit me. The reason anyone settles is because they don't have enough determination or guts to get where they want to go, or do what they want to do. I'm a strong believer that everything happens for a reason. And guess what? If you've ever gotten asked  "where you see yourself in five years"or "things you want to accomplish before you die"it was for a reason.

At some point in life, every one needs to reevaluate what they want. Weather it's choosing what college to attend, what major to pursue, what job to pick or even what man/women to pick. A magic 8 ball is not going to give you the answers to your life, and nor is google.

So why are some things so hard to decide? and is settling a decision we make? The problem is, we settle because we don't realize how great we really are (all cocky-ness aside). If you have a boyfriend who constantly nags about your boobs being to small, your legs being to short, or your terrible/lack of need to dump him.  If your not getting treated like a princess, especially in the early months of dating you wont treat yourself like one. You will turn into a toad because he makes you believe your a toad! So starting from tomorrow i am reevaluating my own life. What i want, who i want, where i want to be and how to accomplish it.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

The broken glass

So while i was having the midnight munchies and craving something peppermint to warm me up, i created my own take on the tall Starbucks skinny peppermint mocha latte. The $4.37 small latte that i order every other day, in replacement of my usual Vente coffee frappachino light. The invention was quite simple, minus Starbucks language. One peppermint tea bag, one spoon full of hot chocolate mix, a dash of milk and there we go. While i was getting my Tiffany blue mug down from the shelf a martini glass ironically fell down (out of no where) missed me by about 1.2 inches and smashed everywhere. Thankfully i was not hurt, but then all night i suspiciously googled the symbolism of broken glass.

So what did i find? I found out that breaking uncolored glass can be a fortune omen, as well as a tradition in Jewish weddings, the underlying proof that you are a clumsy cow, and that shattered glass can be bloody painful to tread on. Especially when your not wearing your fluffy pink diamanté slippers. The same slippers that mop your floor when your to hungover to do so yourself.

The other day at work while wondering around the cashier, waiting for one of many customers to make a purchase, i found myself with four items. Scissors, bubble wrap, tissue paper and tape. About 200 pops later, i invented the bubble bracelete. A bracelete that kills time, looks phantasmagorical and even gives of the misconception that you are indeed very creative. Especially when your stuck behind a cashier, for nine hours.

So back to Starbucks. I've never really been the type of girl to sit in a coffee shop, and write. So today was the day to change that. Thanks to inventions like the iPad and iPhone I no longer have to whip out a notebook and jot down notes about my surroundings. Instead I can look like I actually have friends (awake at 9 am on a Saturday morning) and go on ( to what looks to be) a "texting spree".

Surprisingly my local Starbucks (a good two minute walk from my apartment)is fairly empty. There's two autumn orange chairs, one vintage looking mirror, a wanna be vintage coat rack and then two different level Tory birch like shabby chic ceiling placements. Hopefully that paints a clear picture. As for people, there's one couple sitting opposite. Both are reading newspapers and haven't said one word to each other. There is also a 20 something (plane jane) man with headphones in, a MacBook and what looks to be a blog in front of him. Lastly to my left there's a tourist in a purple scarf, sunglasses, a Chanel pleated jacket and a subway map that she will never understand unless she's lived in New York for five months. 

Friday, November 18, 2011

The four B's

So after catching up on some much needed "Gossip Girl" episodes, and coming to the realization that if Serena Vander Woodson can make the time to blog, as well as Carrie Bradshaw, and of course Bridget Jones ( from Bridget Jones Diary) can i. Right? As cliche as it may or may not sound, walking the streets of Manhattan i constantly have this voice speaking to me or wwcd moments (what would Carrie do).

Its officially been my 15 month anniversary, with my apartment. In 15 months I've used the oven twice, had a job at Henri Bendel, left my job at Henri Bendel gone to med school, left med school, died my hair brown, re-died my hair blonde, and here we are November 18th 2011. With a bar of Toblerone fruit and nut, my macbook pro, and a lifelong story that is flabbergasting, to say the least.

Although i haven't exactly met my "Mr big", i can say that i have met some very good friends equivalent to Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte. And due to the fact that i navigate my way around Manhattan by the four B's Bendels, Bergadorfs, Bloomingdales and Barneys, i would call myself a savvy New Yorker. In other words, a 19 (almost twenty) year old Carrie Bradshaw with a British, powerful, and potent tweak.

Instead of being a journalist,  i had always dreamed of living in NYC and being a famous fashion designer. This dream lasted up until last year. I thought that i was making a mistake entering the world of fashion, and changed my major to Pre Med. Anatomy was interesting, as well as philosophy and trigonometry, i even had pink lab goggles,  a pink scientific calculator and of course a pink fluffy pen that had the word serious written all of over it. Towards my 4th month as a med student i had learnt that my anatomy text books cost as much as one meal at Nello, one Christian Louboton shoe, or 1/7th of a watch at cartier. When we were told to dissect cow eye balls one wednesday afternoon, that was the end of my pre med adventure.

To my parents shock and dismay, i swiftly told them of my love for fashion, living in the city, and lack of passion for dissecting a dead cows eye balls. They supported me and within a few days, i had gained my job back at Bendels. As they always say " It's not what you know, It's who you know".

While sitting on the red bus, squashed between trader joe bags, puffy eskimo-like jackets, a screaming baby and a man with a blue mustache i couldn't help but wonder what the world has come to. Yes their have been significant advancements in technology, but what about everything else?

The older i get, and the more hands i look at. The more i find that their are less and less Harry Winston rings, and more and more 40 year old divorcees wondering the streets of Manhattan.  My question is why. Is marriage going out of style?

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Warm heart

Warm heart

Oasis cream cocktail dress
$190 -

Lanvin platform heels
$785 -

Chloé leather handbag
£770 -

Ileana Makri diamond earrings
£3,095 -

Lavish Lace

Fuzzy Fresh

Fuzzy Fresh

Paul smith shirt
$315 -

Zadig & Voltaire velvet pants
£160 -

Miu miu boots
$750 -

Wendy Nichol black jewelry
$225 -