You're My Idol

American Idol is my guilty pleasure. Always has been. By the time the season is over I will have memorized all of the vitals on the top 12 contestants and developed passionately strong opinions on my favs and foes. So far, 2006 is all about the boys. While each season has their standard breakout hottie—this time it’s Ace, last season was Constantine and before that, Rubin (no, that was mean)—but for some reason, I have recently developed an overwhelming amount of quirky crushes. Quick, check them out before they fade into obscurity.


Taylor Hicks
Sure, he’s 29 and has full head of gray hair, but he wears it well. We’ll call it salt-and-pepper, just like George Clooney. Now, I know that Big T is not your classic cutie, but this Birmingham-native has got more soul than any white boy I’ve ever seen and I find it irresistible. When he played that harmonica for the judges, ooh, I almost melted.


Kevin Covais
Just look at this little guy, how could you not fall for him? He’s this big dork with all the confidence in the world, and I can’t get enough. Plus, this 16-year-old Strong Island boy knows how to get down—he says he raps to Kanye when he’s not singing sweet love songs to his girl back home. He won’t make it til the end, but I’ll swoon over Kev for as long as he’s here.


Chris Daughtry
Ok, Chris actually is a hottie. He’s a serious rocker with the pipes to match, plus, just look at that face. Move over Bo Bice, there’s a new rockstar in town. Only hitch, he’s got a wifey and some kids back home in North Carolina. But there’s still plenty of time for this 26-year-old to lose his soul in Hollywood and dump the extra baggage. I just can't help it, I have a thing for baldies.


Final Word: Do you think I have a shot? Someone get the AI publicist on the phone before they’re voted off and I lose all interest.

It-Bag Identity Crisis

Every season the fashion gods decide what women will wear for months to come. From voluminous dresses to super skinny slacks, high fashion is not necessarily for the masses. With trends leaning more and more to the theatrical side, it’s becoming more and more difficult to look of the moment without looking like a complete clown.

This is where bags come in. Bags are the rock stars of the fashion industry. They’re seen on the arms of the hottest girls, they all have waiting lists, and before you know it, they are discarded after too much publicity for a newer, hotter, cooler version of themselves.

Although the hottest bags are reaching mortgage worthy prices, they represent the one thing that is most accessible about fashion. Can’t afford Balenciaga’s pinstriped pantaloons? Go for their striped canvas bag. Burberry coat break the bank? Opt for the small satchel with signature print.

But it’s not just about what you can afford. The fact is most of us can’t pull off Balenciaga’s Victorian Goth look without looking like Boy George in drag. Wear it on your arm, conversely, and you’re totally chic.

It-bags are certainly the most memorable. Who really remembers what Marc Jacobs did for Louis Vuitton in ’03 but everyone remembers the Murakami bag. Likewise, could anyone pinpoint the direction John Galliano took for Dior in ’01? No, but you better believe they all had the Saddle bag. Why? Because when you have an it-bag, you're part of an upper class. You're envied. You're respected. You belong.

And this season is no different. The following five are my picks for the it-bags for every type of bag hag. (At least until September.)


1. The Urban Bohemian: Chloe’s “Edith”
Exudes Chloe’s casual couture look with supple leather and subtle detailing. It’s simple but perfect.


2. The Vintage Vixen: Marc Jacobs “Carrie”
What would a MJ collection be without an it-bag? This particular style is unique with its clean lines, gold hardware and feminine retro look.


3. The Fickle Fashionista: Fendi’s “B Fendi”
The ultimate statement bag. This is what it-bags are made of. Iconic buckles, available in every color and treatment, and publicized to the max. This is not for the fashion feeble.






4. The Stylish Jet-Setter: Dior “Gaucho”
It hasn’t really been about Dior lately but maybe Galliano will earn a comeback with this new, slouchy style. A deconstructed version of the Saddle bag, this purse exudes effortless elegance.


5. The Fashionable Intelligista: YSL “Muse”
A serious bag with serious it-appeal. The silhouette is unique and the handle straps and structured style seamlessly echo this season’s sophisticated feel.



Final word: From Baguettes to B Fendis, it-bags will always represent a woman’s style persona and status. So who will you be this season?

Skip To My Ludivine

I’m a shopaholic. Like many unfortunate souls I live paycheck to paycheck, spending on the essentials: shoes, clothing and bags. I can equate myself to Carrie Bradshaw who exclaimed one episode after realizing that she had spent more money on shoes than on rent “I literally am going to end up the woman who lived in her shoes!” Not so far fetched. Some might say I’m setting myself up for bad credit, some might say I’m wasting my money, but at least I know what makes me happy. So I guess money can buy happiness, or at least temporary euphoria.

That being said, when I stumble upon a new store, it’s like finding a diamond in the rough, an oasis in the desert. And this doesn’t happen often. I shop at the same places selling the same things to the same people. Soon enough I start looking like everyone on the street. And that, my friend, is style suicide. But there is one store, which I recently discovered, that offers a solution to this shopping ennui, a certain je ne sais quoi to the New York style scene.

Ludivine, owned by two Parisian ex-pats Ludivine Grégoire and her sister, is a boutique that carries cult French brands like Vanessa Bruno, Tsumori Chisato, Sonia Rykiel and Les Praries de Paris. In addition to cozy knits, silk tops and babydoll dresses, the store sells simple accessories like round toe pumps, sequin skinny belts and delicate 24 karat name plate gold necklaces. Their collection is edited to perfection.

The minute you walk in their shoebox sized store, you feel at home. Pale pink walls decorated with Victorian mirrors exude girlish charm. French singers croon in the background because “my father used to listen to it,” says one of the Grégoire sisters. It’s the kind of store you’d find while strolling through the Marais district in Paris, not in the West village sandwiched between a burrito joint and a smoke shop.

Ludivine is truly a treasure. Their best feature is they only carry clothes you can't find anywhere else. And what’s not to love about that?

Final word: For Francophiles and fashionistas alike, Ludivine provides a Parisan outlet for the otherwise jaded shopaholic.

78th Academy Awards: Best and Worst Dressed List

I know. The last thing you need is another best dressed list. From E! to CNN Headline News you will be flooded with the same photos of the same women on the same lists. But how does one really determine a starlet’s style score that will either boost her to fashion fame or condemn her to the depths of “don’t” hell? The answer is, you can’t. Style has always been subjective and in the eye of the beholder, or stylist. Fashion is always changing so something that looked so right will look so wrong a season later. (Uggs anyone?) Nevertheless, I will give you my list of the best and the worst of them because everyone is entitled to an opinion, right?

TOP 3 BEST:

1. Salma Hayek in Atelier Versace knows what works for her. The ocean blue hue was perfect for her olive skin and the fit accentuated all the right body parts. She looked gorgeous, just how a Latin bombshell should look.


2. Michelle Williams in Vera Wang. She took a chance with the color but succeeded. The saffron hue of the dress and wine-colored lips was unexpected but chic. And her retro waves completed the epic and unique look. Michelle, you’ve come a long way from Dawson’s Creek.


3. Felicity Huffman in Zac Posen. Why is it that after an actress plays an unflattering role (ie: Hilary Swank in Boys Don’t Cry and Charlize Theron in Monster), they feel the need to overdress and overprimp at the Oscar’s in order to prove they actually are attractive women? You were acting, we get it. Thank god Felicity knows better. With simple hair and makeup that grounded the stunning dress, she looked like a knockout without trying too hard.

TOP 3 WORST:

1. Naomi Watts in Givenchy. The bottom was harmless but the top looked was a shredded mess as if King Kong got a little frisky and took a bite out of her top. The color was wrong for her complexion, making her look washed out and ill. Maybe she was channeling Tim Burton’s “Corpse Bride”?


2. Sandra Bullock in Angel Sanchez. I’m all for choosing unknown designers but what was Mr. Sanchez thinking? Pockets? Was she cold? Did she need a place to stock her mints and lipstick? On top of that the dress was ill-fitting and made her look like a linebacker next to Keanu. Sorry Sandra, loved you in “Speed” but it’s time to find a new look.


3. Charlize Theron in Dior Haute Couture. Ironically during E!’s Live from the Red Carpet, Ryan Seacrest gushed the actress could wear a garbage bag and still be gorgeous. Well turns out she did, and well, she didn’t (respectively). Unfortunately Miss Theron who once was immune to fashion “don’t” lists lost her couture kryptonite by becoming the definition of a fashion victim last night. Choosing a way too “fashiony” piece that had no place being on a red carpet, the dress engulfed her statuesque frame and made her look like a 6 foot walking present. To make matters worse, her teased updo and raccoon eyes were overdramatic for the already theatrical dress. You really have to wonder, “What was she thinking?”

Final Word: Fashion and risk taking has no place on the red carpet. Thanks to the myriad of paparazzi and viewers at home, these women will be immortalized in Hollywood history so classic is the best way to go. This is not the place to set trends. In a world of Kitson-shopping, Sidekick clutching, Starbucks guzzling photo ops – here lays a chance to actually look like a movie star. So why is this still such a hard concept for some actresses to grasp?

Pimping Out the Oscar's

Three Six Mafia won an Oscar last night, just in case you missed it. The Academy awarded the group the coveted golden statue for “It’s Hard Out Here for A Pimp,” the original song from the motion picture soundtrack “Hustle & Flow,” starring Terrence Howard.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about infusing a little flava into the often uptight Academy Awards, but Three Six Mafia? “It’s Hard Out Here for A Pimp?” Are they really fucking serious?

Now, “Hustle & Flow” was a great movie. I know because I was one of the few people who actually saw it in the theatre this summer. Terrence Howard’s portrayal of DJay—the pimp with a heart of gold and a hot hit single—much deserved its’ Oscar-nomination. But the song is an entirely different story. For any of you who may be unfamiliar, here’s a sampling of the lyrics:

You know it’s hard out here for a pimp,
When you tryin’ to get the money for the rent.
With the Cadillac and gas money spent,
You got a whole lotta bitches jumpin’ ship.

Catchy, yes. But Oscar-worthy? Hardly. I mean, I thought it was a stretch for the Academy when Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” won in 2003, and that actually was a great song.

Without taking anything away from Three Six Mafia, this win just seems to be another feeble attempt by the Academy to speak the language of the people. Actually, the entire Oscar show this year was a feeble attempt by the Academy to speak the language of the people. But nothing seemed to flow.

Out of the context of "The Daily Show," host Jon Stewart’s dry humor just did not translate to the Oscar's. His jokes feel flat, he seemed uncomfortable, and whether he realized it or not, he actually spent most of his time mocking the show and the entire Hollywood establishment.

In addition, the list of presenters read more like a guestlist for the MTV Movie Awards After-Party; Jessica Alba, Ben Stiller, Luke and Owen Wilson, Will Ferrell and Jennifer Aniston, just to name a few. While these are all great and often hilarious performers, their body of work just is not relevant to the Academy Awards. So let’s get them the hell out.

I want Sean Penn, Tim Robbins, Julianne Moore. The Oscar's are supposed to be the one night in Hollywood where people are actually rewarded and celebrated for thier craft. But it seems the UsWeekly-driven-cult-of-celebrity has corrupted even the highest establishments. Just one more reason I'm glad I live in New York.

Final Word: The Academy Awards were never interesting or funny, but now that they’re trying to be, the whole establishment is a joke. But Three Six Mafia is going to be laughing, all the way to the bank.

Sample Size Nightmare

No pain no gain. It’s a phrase used by Olympic trainers, chiropractors and girls who face the fearful feat of fitting a designer loan dress. This was what I face today.

Over my lunch break, I cab it to Peter Som’s atelier. I am greeted by the designer and I double kiss him hello. He quickly tells me he is extremely busy so his assistant Mariana will help me but he wants to see “Everything!” A nervous twitch I never knew existed suddenly plagues my eye.

His studio is tiny. The design area takes up the most space where two seamstresses hunch over a table sketching, stitching and sewing. There are clothes everywhere. Framed photos of Peter arm in arm with Anna Wintour decorate the walls. My “dressing room” lies in the back corner of the design area, curtained off by a burlap sheet. Mariana locks the door behind me that leads to an outdoor staircase and warns everyone that I will be undressing. This is no time to be bashful.

A rack is set before me of iconic pieces from Peter’s current spring 2006 line and previous collections The garment bags read society names like “Tinsley,” “Tory,” and “Amanda” (as in Mortimer, Burch and Hearst) designating the celebuatantes who wore them previously.

Eyeing the gowns' minute size, my heart starts to thump. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I shop at Lane Bryant. I happily stock my wardrobe with cute, sample size pieces from Bergdorf, Barney’s and Bendel’s like the rest of Manhattan female populous but when it comes to the dresses hung before me, I might as well be Anna Nicole Smith (pre-Trim Spa, baby).

My first attempt is an olive green satin strapless number that grazes the floor. Step one. I pull up the dress. Step two. I pull up the zipper. It glides easily and I let out a breath of relief. This is going to be easier than I thought, I think to myself. The zipper stops. I tug a bit. It doesn’t budge. I tug harder. Nothing. I start to sweat. Damn. I should have drunk that tea.

I toss the dress aside like a used gum wrapper and grab another. This one is cotton candy pink and vaguely resembles the tutu Lara Flynn Boyle got so much flack for wearing at the Golden Globes a few years back. At this point I would wear a Glady garbage bag – as long as it fit. No such luck. I quickly realize that all of these fabulous frocks are not “sample size” at all, they’re supermodel size, ie: suicide size. I’m now drenched in sweat and consumed with a primal fear that I may be leaving empty handed. No. I think determinedly. Even if I have to cut off a limb, I am fitting into one of these goddamn dresses.

“How’s it going?” I hear Mariana call from behind the curtain. The flimsy thing now separates us between a world of hope and joy and a world of gloom and despair.

“Oh, actually, pink isn’t really my color,” I lie. It’s funny how easy it is when you’re faced with a life and death situation.

She tears back the curtain and I grip the pink thing for dear life using it as a handkerchief to cover my chest.

“Hmmm, what about this one?” She hands me a short black cocktail dress, similar to the first but much shorter. Why not.

“Great!” I grab it and practically shove her out of the way. Third time’s a charm right? I take a breath and suck in deeply like I’ve never sucked in before and pull it on. Like a blessing from the heavens above the dress slides on, the zipper glides up and the hook fastens. Praise the lord!! Hallelujah!! It fits. It’s tight as hell but it fits. Can I get an Amen?

I search for a mirror but there is none to be found. The only mirror in the entire office is by Peter’s office in front of everyone. Fantastic. I slip on the complimentary brocade Manolos that are the most beautiful things to ever touch my toes and totter out.

The walk to the mirror that lies only a few feet away seems eternal. Once I arrive, the reflection awaiting me is surprisingly not that bad.

Peter comes out for the final verdict. “Sexy!” He exclaims.

“It’s not too tight?” I ask timidly.

“No it’s totally hot.” He gushes like a teenage girl.

I look in the mirror and try to see what he sees. The dress does squeeze in all the right places. And it actually looks okay. Score one for the kids!

Final Word: From now on I think I’ll leave this whole designer loan thing for the socialites and celebrities who subsist on bottled water, baby carrots and benefits. But for us real girls who consider a bagel a healthy breakfast rather than an enema, I’ll stick to store sizes.

Mob Deep

The other night I attended a friend’s engagement party at the Time Warner building at Columbus Circle. The sight overlooked Central Park; the drinks were abundant; and the crowd was incredibly chic, a mix of well-groomed men in silk suits and girls in feminine frocks adorned in ribbon and lace. The bride-to-be glowed radiantly in a bohemian Matthew Wiliamson number. It was a scene out of Elle magazine in all its feminine, flowing glory. But one girl stood out from the crowd.



Dressed in a skintight magenta halter dress and channeling Donatella Versace, she had an aura that attracted sneers from the women and stares from the men. But I respected this girl and her unapologetic sexy style. Don’t get me wrong, I tend to lean towards the bohemian side when it comes to my own style but I could not help but be mesmerized by her provocative look.

Who does provocative best? The Italianos, naturalamente! Nowadays, it seems the whole world has Italian fever. This week New York Magazine features James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano prefacing the much anticipated sixth season of the HBO show the Sopranos (premieres on March 12 at 9pm). The New York Post has been splattered with headlines covering Mafioso John Gotti's love child scandal. And this week chef Mario Batali finally opened his mega-eatery Del Posto in Chelsea just in time to feed the frenzy.


Even the fashion industry has had mafia chic in mind. Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton sent bad-ass babes down the runway in shockingly short, patent leather in minis; Roberto Cavalli had his sexiest collection yet with femme fatales in revealing gowns à la Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface; and Donatella Versace, Ms. Ceaser’s Palace herself returned to her roots with scandalous slits and plunging necklines. Barneys’ New York also just received a shipment of Lanvin's absurdly high, patent stilettos that look more like weapons than footwear. Well at least they’re functional.

Final Word: All dressed up and nowhere to go? Not to worry, this Tuesday, HBO hosts the Sopranos premiere party at the MoMA. But before you strap on those stilettos, here are a few tips for small talk:

Hot Vaca Spot: Before, South Beach. Now, South Sicily.
Newly Divorcée: Before, Jessica Simpson. Now, Jamie Lynn Sigler.
UK Muse: Before, Sienna Miller. Now, Elizabeth Hurley.
Star siblings: Before, the Olsen twins. Now, the Gotti brothers.
Harlem Eatery: Before, Strictly Roots Vegetarian Restaurant. Now, Rao’s.
Hot Couple: Before, Brangelina. Now, Tormela.

Will people be impressed by your extensive Soprano knowledge and style? Fugeddaboudit.

It-Girl of the Week

Ghetto princess meets funky fashionista, tomboy meets femme fatale, Kelis represents the beauty of a new generation. But she is not your typical Miss Universe…

To be frank, Kelis is awkward. Her teeth aren’t exactly straight, her nose isn’t exactly petite and she wears her hair in an enormous unkempt afro. She’s the anti-Jessica Simpson, the un-Paris Hilton. But there’s something about the doe-eyed artist that makes her as sexy as she is gawky. As my little brother commented when he met her the other night, half-surprised and half-pleased, “She’s dope!”



The first time I saw Kelis was at a N.E.R.D. concert almost 5 years ago. She was the opening act. And I was not expecting what I saw. Instead of R & B diva, out walked a raging rock star with punkish presence. She’s no Beyoncé, that’s for sure. Instead of booty-shaking her way across the stage, she belted out the hook for “Rock Star” while banging her head like she was Axl Rose and moshing with Pharrell like she was one of the boys but her voluptuous figure and long legs reminded us she was anything but.



Since that night almost half a decade ago, Kelis has become a music and fashion icon. She surprises us with her witty style combining throw back pieces with contemporary designs and always a bit of humor. From a bias cut draped mini dress circa 1970 and white ankle booties or a vintage tee stating enigmatically, “We are not alone…”, she always keeps us guessing whether she will channel seductive siren or awkward adolescent.

And we’re not the only ones who have been hypnotized by Kelis. Designer Matthew Williamson who dresses the likes of Sienna Miller and Helena Christensen has crowned Kelis his muse and best friend. Legendary rapper Nas calls her his wifey. And she has single handedly made teenage trekkies around the world swoon. I guess her milkshakes really do bring all the boys to the yard.

Final Word: Whether you love her for her style or for her music, Kelis is a rock star to be reckoned with.

Break Me Off a Piece a That

New Designer Spotlight:
Torn

“Sexy” and “sweatpants” don’t often go in the same sentence. But handbag designer and NYC-girl-about-town Ronny Kobo doesn’t seem to care. Along with business partner Lauren Forst, Kobo recently launched Torn, a new line of cotton-fleece pants, tanks, tees and zip-ups. These sportswear separates are “smart, simple, sexy and chic,” says Kobo. “They are perfect for a nice lunch, but also great with a pair of heels.”

But please, purge from you mind any J-Lo-in-a-tracksuit visuals because this season, Torn exudes a fresh simplicity. The stone-washed staples—such as slim-fit sweats, long waffle tanks and sexy, fitted zip-ups—are available in a variety of muted colors from off-white to off-black and a soft, subtle green. Their tailored touches make wearing sweats feel fashionable, instead of frumpy.

“The sweats feel extra yummy, but have a designer fit,” says Kobo. “And they flatter any body type. They’re not just for skinny-minies. Curvy girls can rock them too.”

Kobo advises wearing the Torn outfit together for a “really put together look,” or pairing the separates with other pieces in your closet, like throwing one of the zip-ups over a flirty spring dress. Either way, infusing Torn into your wardrobe will make weekend-wear less worrisome and a whole lot more fun.

And since sweats should never be taken too seriously, the coming seasons have a light-hearted themes. This fall, check out Torn’s “Outdoors Woman” collection, with tomboy-inspired camouflage prints, baseball tees and a plaid-lined hunting jacket. But don’t worry, no athleticism required.

In spring 2007, rediscover your inner girly-girl with pieces dedicated to broken hearts. Look out for love letters scribbled across sweatshirts and tees, and a heart-enclosed “143” on every zipper. That’s a throw-back to the beeper babe in all of us, just in case you didn’t know.

Final Word: TORN + SEXY SWEATS = 2-GETHA 4-EVA. Available at Saks, Bloomingdale’s, Fred Segal and online.

Valley of the Dolls

I’m having a crisis. This Friday I have an appointment with designer du jour Peter Som to fit into one of his fabulous gowns for the upcoming annual Tango and Tapas Night at the Frick. Sounds like a fashionista’s dream come true, right? Wrong.

My problem stems from the fact that I’ve just come back from a 5 day weekend of bingeing on biscuits and beer only to come home to my period silently waiting to spring like a vulture at feeding time.

Yes I am the human equivalent of the Goodyear blimp. No worries, I can just veg out on the couch watching American Idol and Skating with Celebrities while I slowly deflate to normal size proportions – it’s not like I have a fitting with one of the Vogue/CFDA fund designers in two days. Oh wait, I do.

Great. So as I’m munching on my lettuce for lunch, I see my girlfriend online. I know this particular friend will have a number of slimming solutions since she is a crack addict's diet guru (Think Jenny Craig on speed; the more pills you pop, the more points you get.) Oh you thought diet pills were passé? Au contraire. Not for this girl who considers adderalll a great pick me up before a quick workout.

Here’s how the convo went:

nicoleaberrie (4:24:44 PM): oh god, but also on friday i'm going to meet peter som at his studio to fit and borrow a dress for an event next thurs. sooo freaked out cause i pigged out over the weekend AND have my period. sample size nightmare
Mara92 (4:36:48 PM): omg peter som has such pretty things...
Mara92 (4:37:12 PM): whats the event
nicoleaberrie (4:37:23 PM): yeah but i'm not gonna be able to fit in anything! he's just lending...wait what do i do, i seriously need to lose like 10 lbs in 3 days...
Mara92 (4:37:57 PM): um...i can bring you some dieters tea...you will lose like 3 lbs from it...but you are gonna be goign to the bathroom alot for a day
nicoleaberrie (4:38:05 PM): yes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Mara92 (4:38:18 PM): and then i can give you a redline/taurine mixture i concoted...
Mara92 (4:38:23 PM): that makes you poop too..
Mara92 (4:38:30 PM): i lost two lbs today from it..
nicoleaberrie (4:38:41 PM): wiat, that one's scary...what??
nicoleaberrie (4:38:49 PM): what the hell is that?
Mara92 (4:39:06 PM): i gained about 8 lbs between last week and today and i think my period is coming
Mara92 (4:39:18 PM): redline is basically like xenadrine but a bit stronger...
nicoleaberrie (4:39:35 PM): yikes, might stick to the tea...
Mara92 (4:39:50 PM): and taurine pills... are like vitamins to give you energy/speed up your metabolism,...its actually the main ingreideint in a red bull
nicoleaberrie (4:40:16 PM): i see...
Mara92 (4:40:21 PM): so i take two redlines and two taurines every moring when i get up and i go to the bathroom
nicoleaberrie (4:40:38 PM): delish
Mara92 (4:40:48 PM): and actually it gives crazy energy...i can run like a friggin triathalon on the treadmill after the combo...
nicoleaberrie (4:42:22 PM): what's the tea?
Mara92 (4:45:32 PM): the tea is actually the scariest
Mara92 (4:45:38 PM): its basically all senna..
Mara92 (4:45:47 PM): and it takes about 6 hours to kick in
Mara92 (4:45:55 PM): and it is the most agonizing feeling in the world
Mara92 (4:46:13 PM): it is basically giving yourself like an at-home colonoscopy
nicoleaberrie (4:46:13 PM): hahahaha, what's senna?
Mara92 (4:46:23 PM): its sooo gross
Mara92 (4:46:32 PM): you will like shit out things you didnt even know existed
Mara92 (4:46:41 PM): it completely cleans you out..
nicoleaberrie (4:46:44 PM): ok ok enough
Mara92 (4:47:01 PM): you will probably be pooping for about 5 hours, give or take...
Mara92 (4:47:17 PM): but its literally instant...like when you have the pain..you have to be by a bathroom
nicoleaberrie (4:47:28 PM): what's it called?
Mara92 (4:47:36 PM): i took it on a boat once in italy...i wanted to throw myself overboard
Mara92 (4:48:02 PM): its called three ballerina tea...
Mara92 (4:48:13 PM): and its only sold on these weird/ghetto websites
nicoleaberrie (4:48:36 PM): ok, i'm too scared...i think i'll just stick to the gym like everyday
Mara92 (4:48:39 PM): and you have to buy like 20 boxes of it...its really cheep...
Mara92 (4:49:05 PM): ok..well ill bring it just in case
nicoleaberrie (4:49:14 PM): haha ok


…needless to say I didn’t take the tea.

Final Word: If you know you’re have an appointment with a fashion designer who will grope you, pin you, tuck you and size your every extra inch to fit into his impossibly small creation, I suggest laying off the biscuits so you won’t have to drink tea.

Georgia On My Mind

What’s one of the best things about living in Manhattan? Leaving it.

Every now and then when my calendar allows it I like to pack up my Tumi, pop in an Airborne and jet set to destinations like Miami (Via Delta Song), the Hamptons (Via Hampton Jitney) or occasionally the South of France (Via the Travel channel).

This past weekend, my travels took me down south again, to Atlanta. (Ok, so it’s not Dubai but at least there’s no jet lag involved.)

Now for some Manhattanites, including myself, Atlanta has remained an unknown entity. Many of us have yet to explore this southern city beyond the airport… but there’s much more to this town than the Budweiser Brewery and Cinnabon in Concourse A.

Take the food. The Flying Biscuit Café is the epitome of southern home cookin’. Owned by early 90s sensation the Indigo Girls, the café offers a genius combination of health food and soul food (think whole wheat biscuits and organic grits) so hippie locals and Emory students can listen to Galileo while munching on fried green tomatoes (it’s actually not just a movie).

For dinner you must try the recently opened Table 1280 restaurant located in the piazza of the High Museum. This is not your average museum café. An homage to minimalist elegance, the contemporary design by Italian architect Renzo Piano exudes a digital zen with a rainbow light installation that glows above diners feasting on Chef Shaun Doty’s gourmet crabcakes and chickpea fries. Go for lunch and check out the upcoming Chuck Close exhibit.

If you must satisfy your passion for fashion? Go to the mall. No really. Thanks to upscale Phipps Plaza, I can call myself a mall rat. Granted I hail from the Garden State, but they don’t make malls like this one on Route 4. With boutiques like Theory, Intermix, Jeffrey (the original), Blue Genes, and Bob Ellis (think Manolos Mary Janes, Jimmy Choo slingbacks and Lanvin ballet slippers), who needs Bergdorf?

Final Word: Whether you’re in town for business, pleasure or just need a dose of southern hospitality, Atlanta will satisfy any urbanite’s cravings for good eats, good sees and good times.

Let's All Get High and Waisted

A few years ago my mother threatened to destroy my denim collection. At first, she wanted to give them away. Then, she wanted to throw them away. Eventually, she wanted to douse them in gasoline and dance around a denim barbeque right before my eyes.

Clearly, she was not pleased with my selections. She found my low-waisted choices both offensive and obscene. But, I didn’t care.

We all remember the ole’ low-waisted jeans. They sat just below our hip bone in the front, and just above the tip of our crevice in the back. The rise was far too short to hold a proper zipper, and they were always made of some terrible over-stretched fabric that resembled more of a gym pant than a jean. But, we loved it.

Ironically, that same season when denim hit its low point, Chloé released a collection of jeans and skirts with wide bottoms and high, 70’s-inspired waistlines. The silhouettes were both fashionable and flattering, but instead of taking a cue from Phoebe Philo, we chose to mimic Britney Spears.

Since, Phoebe has retired and Britney has fallen from grace, but thankfully, the waistlines on our jeans have consistently been on the rise. Each season they would creep up about a half an inch, and over time, wearing jeans no longer put us at risk of indecent exposure.

This season, for the first time, we’ve witnessed a true movement upward. The shapes are almost identical to the aforementioned Chloé designs, but the world is finally ready to wear them.

Grey Ant has created the best example of modern, high-waisted jeans. Their narrow waistlines surpass the belly-button and sit just below the rib cage. They are super slim fit through the lower torso and then widen in the leg. Think Parker Posey in Dazed and Confused, with slightly better style.


Final Word: High-waisted jeans will make you look so slim and sophisticated, even you’re mother will be proud.

My Friend James

I love Oprah. I love her show, I love her clothes, I love her unwavering integrity. So when Oprah takes time out of her busy schedule of making celebrities cry and giving shit away to publicly admonish the writer whose moving memoir brought her to tears, I tune in.

Yes I’m talking about the already talked about to death James Frey and his controversial book, “A Million Little Pieces” where he recounts his life in rehab as a crackhead, an alcoholic and a criminal. I shamefully admit, I did not even know of the book until I heard 2 girls discussing it in the locker room at my gym one January evening.

“Can you believe that?!” One girl asked.

“I know! And just imagine how Oprah feels! She’s probably so upset.” The other girl retorted.

My ears perked up. Oprah? Someone hurt Oprah? Not my girl! I had to find out what all the hype was about. And I did. Sure enough, thanks to Larry King Live, The Daily Show, CNN, Fox News, The Evening News, Oprah, Best Week Ever, The Soup and Barbara Walters, within a week the whole world knew James Frey and his little book.

In case you missed it, notorious website The Smoking Gun outed Frey as a frat-boy liar when they dug up some old police documents that proved Frey “wholly fabricated or wildly embellished details” of his book including his 87 day long prison stint. James lied. And not only that- he lied to Oprah.

So I read the book...Not only is it good, it’s great. The story is emotional and heart-breaking, the characters are real and sympathetic, the writing is addictive and so real that it sucks you in like you’re shitting blood, you’re getting a root canal without anesthetic, you’re broken, lost and searching for hope in a hopeless world. The specifics may not be true, but the story of humanity and loss of humanity remains real. What really bewilders me is not his embellishments (for without which, a good writer does not make) but the fact that people are so up in arms over this.

Since when does America care about the truth?! And why is it over how many crack pipes this guy smoked in Ohio and not whether a country really deserves to be declared an enemy of war? Where are our priorities people? I don’t care if this guy did his time in Rikers Island or Ridgemont High, he gave us a good story.

Final Word: Everyone is going to have their own opinion. Why Frey did not publish his book as a novel is beyond me or maybe it just further proves his point. We’re all human and we all make mistakes. Besides the fact that he lost a contract with Doubleday, James Frey probably doesn’t give a rat’s ass what Oprah, Larry or the rest of the world thinks and frankly, neither do I.

Bobbing for Boldness

I have never left a hair salon completely satisfied. It’s the same unfulfilled feeling I get when leaving the doctor’s office. Perhaps it’s because I expect these mere mortals to work miracles. Or perhaps it’s because the ones I have chosen just simply, are not that good.

Today I got a haircut at Salon V in the East Village. I booked the appointment after taking a recommendation from two very satisfied friends. The place was what you would expect from that part of town. It was small and intimate with exposed brick walls and heavily tattooed stylists. The girls were all very friendly and they immediately offered me a glass of wine, which I found particularly charming. My stylist, Carolina, was all about business. She refrained from making that pesky small-talk for which hairdressers are known, and that alone, put me at ease.

I told her I wanted to cut off a decent amount. My hair was just below my shoulder and I wanted it above my chin. “I’m thinking about a light bob with an angled bang,” I told her. “But honestly, I’m used to short hair so don’t be shy. You can really do whatever you want. Feel free to chop right into it.”

Now, I would think creative freedom is a hairstylist’s dream. But I say the same thing every time I get my hair cut and never has anyone been bold. Do they think I’m lying? Like one minute I’ll encourage creativity, and the next I'll burst into tears? I mean I’m not bi-polar, I just want a ballsy haircut.

Final Word: The search continues for my perfect stylist. Until then, I guess I’ll have to live with my boring bob.

Revenge of the Nerds

Nerds are so hot right now. From fashion to film, geeky guys are having the best week ever. Every decade or so nerds storm the nation with their goofy glasses, boring button-downs and strappy suspenders. And everybody loves it. First came Doogie Howser MD, then came Steve Urkel, so who is our loveable loser of the new millienium?

Take Steve Carrell of The Office and 40-Year Old Virgin fame. This guy could not be more nerdy. He may not wear plaid but he is the definition of uncool. He's so uncool, he's cool.

So is nerd the new black?

From Stephen Colbert overshadowing Jon Stewart as the hottest anchorman in town to Phillip Seymour-Hoffman being inundated with Oscar nods for his bookish portrayal of Truman Capote, it's no wonder why we're swooning for smarties.

Calculator couture has even popped up on runways in fashion capitals around the world. But before you pull out the pen protector, just take a look at my personal fave. Suspenders. They're so unexpected, they're chic! Miuccia Prada’s mini jumper is a sexy, modern version of these smarty pants while Thakoon’s pinafore dress offers a more feminine interpretation.

Final Word: How to avoid looking like you belong on the math team? Pair your suspenders with over-sized trousers or shorts (think voluminous, not lycra), round toe platforms and a simple white tank.

Playing Dress Up

New Designer Spotlight: DoucetteDuvall

I don’t know about you, but I love wearing dresses. Dresses—when worn well—are so liberating, so feminine, and so effortlessly chic. Now this may sound like post-post-feminist backlash, but wouldn’t the world seem like a prettier place if we all wore dresses all the time?

Whether you share this nostalgic notion, or you're simply in the market for a fun, flirty frock, DoucetteDuvall’s new line of vintage-inspired dresses and jackets beautifully blend old-school glamour with modern practicality.

“I hate fluff pieces,” says Stephanie Ann Doucette, one-half of the design team behind the line. “I’m not going to make a trench coat if you can’t wear it in the rain.”

In addition to their functional femininity, Doucette, and her partner Annebet Duvall, have romanticized the notion of getting dressed. “The day should take you wherever it may, without needing a wardrobe change,” says Doucette. “So the line is about transition pieces. These dresses will take you from day-to-night.”

When the small collection debuted last fall, the line suggested 1940’s Hollywood glamour. But this spring is about all the casual vibe of the 1970's. The early spring collection includes two styles of dresses. Both designs are reminiscent of sundresses our mothers donned in their youth, with high elastic waistlines and sweetly tied spaghetti straps.

Each style is available in two fabrics; one a boldly striped silk charmeuse, the other a paisley-polka-dotted silk-lined polyester. Later in the season, DoucetteDuvall will release long, casual dresses made of cotton and gauze, and possibly preview some of their fall trench coats.

The line will make its official debut in fall 2006. But while we’re being nostalgic, the New York-based design duo met as neighbors in Little Italy where they used to chat the night away on their fire escape. How undeniably charming, in an old-school sort of way.

Final Word: The dresses—sold exclusively at Intermix Fifth Avenue—arrive this weekend. Call 212.533.9720 to order your own little piece of the past.

It-Girl of the Week

In a world where Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie bobble their bobble heads about the pages of US Weekly and Page Six, we have come to believe that socialite = fame-hungry whore. Ever since the word "celebutante" was invented, young urban debs believe they have a right, nay the talent to be stars, and for what? Shoving their arms up a cow’s arse? Hardly a skill. They move to LA, hire stylist Rachel Zoe, purchase a Pomeranian pup and desert NYC to pursue some sort of excuse for a career.

Meanwhile back in Gotham city, the true pretty young things hold it down. And I don’t mean Brittainy Gastineau. Victoria Traina, daughter of steamy novelist Danielle Steele, happens to be the most intriguing east coast based it-girl of the moment (Since when does a trashy writer’s offspring equal socialite? Erroneous.) The muse of cult turned mainstream label Proenza Schouler, Victoria embodies what is fashionable and cool about our generation. She’s pretty (sans collagen), perpetually tan (Portofino not spray-on) and smart (well, smart-looking). Her eyes sparkle as to say, this whole socialite thing is a joke and you’re all fools to eat it up. Unlike her peers, Kimberly (Rod), Theodora (Keith) and Nicky (Kathy) who have drenched themselves in swag rags (one of which who tried to get a “discount” off an already discounted tee at Intermix during Fashion Week) and have become and pathetic cliche, Victoria has shied away from the limelight of Hollywood to pursue status in more fashionable Manhattan circles and actually has her own style. What does she do exactly when she’s not taking fabulous pictures and wearing designer duds? Do we care?

Final Word: PYTs around the world should take a cue from Ms. Traina. Stay away from reality shows, become BFF with a hot designer and never ever have a fashion don’t moment. So until Victoria signs to appear on E!’s “Steele’s Society Sirens,” she’s my pick for it-girl du jour.

Take Me Out

This afternoon I decided I wanted to write about SeamlessWeb. I wanted to tell everyone that it is one of the most comprehensive websites on the Internet. That it blows MenuPages out of the water. That ordering take-out in New York has never been easier. And that there are 43 restaurants in my neighborhood alone willing to deliver to me in less than 30 minutes and I don’t have to actually speak to a single one of them.

And then I thought about it a little more.

We’re coming off a long weekend. I mean, if you count Thursday there have been at least four perfect opportunities to go out, be social, get a drink. Yet the only thing I have to talk about is SeamlessWeb—a fucking online delivery service. And yes, Benny Burrito’s were amazing and Better Burger was exactly that, but honestly, when did I become the girl with nothing more on her agenda than prompt delivery and bad TV? God, I’m such a loser!

So this week, instead of watching “Mario, Full Boil” on The Food Network—unfortunately I’m not kidding—I am going to hit up Otto. I know he’s a fat bastard, but I can’t help it. I’m craving a cheese plate and a cute sommelier.


Final Word: I’ve got to get over the green tea and get back on that saddle before I start watching Grey’s Anatomy. Regularly. And did I mention? That Meredith is such a whore!

Kiss Me Guido

I had an identity crisis over the weekend. My boyfriend and I had plans to meet a friend at Spy bar. I had never heard of this place and probably for good reason. Not that I’m a snob when it comes to watering holes but there are 2 categories that I consider a good time– the ultra trendy club where the DJ is guaranteed to be good or the ultra dirty dive bar where the jukebox is guaranteed to play as much G & R as I like- and nothing in between. There is nothing worse than a place trying to be cool when it’s not.

Cue Spy bar. We arrive outside to find bouncers and a velvet rope. Great. Where are we again? Clearly not waiting on any line, I approach a 17 year old girl clutching a coffee cup (amateur) and clipboard.

“Hi,” I say authoritatively as to say, “Can you let us in already?”

“Can you get to the back of the line?” She asks me.

Are you kidding me? I don’t even want to be here! But I listen and shamefully tell her we’re on a list (who even has lists nowadays?!) and she let’s us in but not before we have to pay $3 for a mandatory coat check.

Inside it’s a circus. No one is over 20 years old and everyone is either Italian, Asian or wearing some form of pleather jacket. I make a trip to the ladies’ room where all 3 stalls are filled with girls throwing up. We’re leaving. My friend would understand.

I call my brother who tells me to meet him at Nest, the new hotspot du jour. Perfect. We cab it up to 27th street where we encounter another line, another list and another mandatory entrance fee ($15 = reduced). When we finally get upstairs, I feel like I’ve entered the auditorium of my high school. Familiar faces swarm the room of kids who I’ve grown up with but are years younger than me. I feel like I’m at a bad house party. We’re outta here.

On our way home, my boyfriend asks me, “Can you believe those bridge and tunnel crowds?”

Excuse me? I mean sure at Spy but at Nest? Those were my “friends”! Suddenly the kids that I barely knew by name were my brethren. I was their ambassador, their martyr. Bridge and tunnel? No way my friend. Because if they are, what does that make me? The slight question mark that lingered in my mind was quickly extinguished by devout denial as I erupted into the great debate. The poor guy didn't even have a chance.

His case – Bridge and tunnel is a literal meaning of those who cross a bridge or tunnel to enter Manhattan.

My case – Fuck you. I’m not bridge and tunnel. (Ok, I’m from New Jersey but Englewood is so not bridge and tunnel.)

In the end, we agreed to disagree but in retrospect (ie: without 2 bottles of wine in me), I am still a bit at a loss. Are we bridge and tunnel? Sure our wife beaters are C & C and our leather jackets are Prada, but are we simply a refined version of the GWB refugees? The thought is terrifying yet is also revealing that all things are relative. One man's Crobar is another man's Bungalow 8. Well, I guess it just depends on what side of the river you’re coming from.

Final Word: Each one of us may have a little bridge and tunnel, redneck, masshole, hick within us but least here we can roam free, call ourselves New Yorkers and deny, deny, deny.

Norma Kamali Outfits the Avenger in All of Us

So, the other day I had a missed call from my brother. Now, this is a seemingly normal incident for any other human being, but not so much for me. You see, my brother probably calls me, directly, less than six times a year. But don’t get the wrong idea, we’re all well and good and close and all, he’s just never been a man a many words. Especially not on the phone.

Just to give you a taste, our phone conversations over the course of the last year or so have gone a little something like this:

“I’m getting married.”

“I’m having a baby.”

“I’m looking to get wasted tonight.”

So when I realize he had called me, I figured it was one of three things; something good, something bad, or something pertaining to beer. But when I got him on the line I was delighted to discover he actually had an agenda.

“So, what are you doing March 4th and 5th?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Well, there’s this charity dodgeball tournament at our old high school and I really think we could kill it.”

Dodgeball? Dodgeball? Was he really fucking serious? Yes. He was. Utterly and completely. Apparently, he had assembled a solid team of retired high-school-sports-superstars like himself, and was ready to crush the competition. The only glitch was he needed two girls to play. That’s where little sis comes in. In addition, I was advised to bring a friend. “And make sure she’s athletic.”

As I’m sharing the complete ridiculousness of the situation with a friend from work, her face becomes illuminated. She wants in. And she’s serious. Turns out, hidden beneath her fashionable façade lives a retired All-County volleyball player. Not to mention, she has a brother is in the NFL so she’s got aggression in her genes. She’s perfect! A huge asset to our team.

The following day she and I attend an informational seminar on the new Norma Kamali for Everlast sportswear line. It’s a fabulous collection of fashion/function pieces made out of terrycloth and lycra. One glance at the lookbook and we turn to each other in unison, “dodgeball uniforms!” we whisper, as our eyes widen with disbelief, never imagining such perfection could literally land in our laps.

After much discussion, we narrow the choices to a one-piece number. Spandex booty-shorts attached to a blousy, ¾-sleeve, boatneck top. It’s #119. We pull the sales rep aside to inquire about special ordering some pieces for ourselves. She’s totally down. So how’s this for a visual? I have not been back to my high school in the nearly six years since I graduated and now I’m going to prance in in a one-piece Norma Kamali lyrca jumper, ready to draw blood at a charity dodgeball tournament? I can’t even. Too much…..

Final Word: We’re totally taking home a trophy. How could we miss? We have a squad of superstars ready to come out of retirement, Norma included.

America's Next Top Model

Every few years the fashion industry decides to trumpet one of its own models as a superhero of contemporary culture, hence the term, supermodel. From the Amazonian likes of Cindy Crawford and Naomi Campbell to the Brazilian beauty of Gisele Bundchen, these girls are the faces and bodies of each generation. They represent all that is right with society. Why bother looking at the damage bird flu has incurred when you can watch Heidi strut her stuff wearing much healthier looking wings? These girls are our only hope. And now the fashion gods have anointed the next savior…. Daria Werbowy?

The name doesn’t exactly roll off your tongue. The problem with Daria, as far as supermodels are concerned, is that she has no personality. Cindy is the American icon. Gisele is the Brazilian bombshell. Naomi is the bitch. But who is Daria? From Vogue to GQ, Daria has been hailed as epitome of glamour, fashion and sexiness. Sure she’s stunning, sure she can sell perfume but what happened to models with kick-ass personalities and less than riveting movie roles (Fair Game, Taxi anyone?) I don’t exactly see Daria starring in the new Vaughn/Wilson romantic comedy. But if Anna Wintour says it, so it shall be.

Daria’s look perfectly embodies what fashion is about right now- soft colors, sophisticated lines and a muted elegance. Perhaps she is an averse reaction to our current obsession with gross reality from the Kate Moss debaucle to Jessica Simpson’s sexcapades. Perhaps she is an indication of where our culture is headed. Namely, an anonymous, shy, private culture where crass extroverted behavior (read: Taradise) is scorned rather than championed. Could it be?

Final Word: We may never tire from the obscenity of reality tv and gossip rags but at least fashion has provided us with enough escapism to make the world beautiful again - and in that sense Daria is a superhero in every sense.

Flip flops in February

It's 58 degrees outside and it's February. I just saw someone in a t-shirt on my way to work. The Times style section just ran a feature on street style titled, "The Girls Walk By in Their Summer Clothes." They're not wearing their summer clothes because it's fashionable, but because it's fucking 60 degrees out in February!! This is not normal. Are we truly falling into the abyss of global warming? Have our fears of The Day After Tomorrow been realized in true form? (if so, where the hell is Jake cause if we're going down, he better be at my side). I don't know whether to rejoice at the fact that I can leave my scarf and gloves at home or break down into violent sobs at the fact that the end is near. Either way I'm secretly pleased that I can wear my new Sonia Rykiel trench out to dinner tonight.

Final Word: Yes we are going down in flames but at least we can look fabulous doing it, right?

I'll take a Green Tea. Straight Up.

Ok. So I wouldn’t call myself a booze-hound or anything, but I am a gal that likes her drinks. A few glasses of wine at dinner, or on my nights in. Grey Goose rocks with three limes on nights out. And shots of Patron, straight up. That’s normal right? Well, at least I have good taste.

So anyway, last week was a bit out of control. Not so much with the drinking, but more with mass gluttonous consumption as a whole. In addition to doing a grande restaurant tour of New York—Tortilla Flats Monday, Bette Wednesday, Stanton Social Thursday, Yucabar Friday, and Morimoto’s Saturday—I was also out until five a.m. almost every night! It’s a little something we like to call non-tourist tourism, but that’s for another entry.

After I nearly collapsed on Sunday, I decided I should probably try to get my life together. So, the next day I did some laundry, went to Whole Foods, and downloaded several Buddhist lectures onto my iTunes. In addition, I promised myself I would not have a drink or ingest any other mood altering substances for at least a week.

Well, I gotta tell ya, I’m on day five and I feel great! (The shakes came and went on day three. No, I’m kidding). You don’t really realize how those “couple a drinks” during the week can really fuck you up. I mean look at me! I’m writing again! And this whole blog contribution just sorta came out of left field. I haven’t had this much clarity in years! (Well, maybe not years, but you catch my drift……….)

It’s kind of funny how long it has taken me to wrap my brain around the concept of week-END. Now, if I could just find myself a REAL job, I might almost be a human being.

Final Word: Everything is best in moderation. Nah, the jury is still out……..

Never Fly Coach

During an impromptu chick hang last night we stumbled upon the topic of V-Day gifts. “Is it bad that I want to return John's* Valentine’s Day gifts?” one of our friends asked.

“Well, what did he get you?”

“A scarf and a key chain from Coach. And they’re covered in C’s.”

“What the hell are you going to with a store credit from Coach? Buy more shit with C’s all over it? Tell him, ‘I want G’s, bitch!’”

Final Word: Save the C’s and spend the G’s.

*Name changed to save him from embarrassment. Because honestly, who the fuck shops at Coach?

Weekly Ritual

I lead a double life. I am a Candace Bushnell novel’s equivalent to Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Every Monday, my Bose alarm rouses me to a fresh start (it’s not as inspiring as that Nike commercial where people run marathons at 5am, but it’ll do). I get up, go to work, order my egg whites from Medina (goat cheese omelet), skim the Style section at Page Six (toss “real” news), order my salad from Medina (Cobb), go to the Equinox on Broadway and hit the elliptical (30 minutes), contort into Laughing Lotus yogic poses worthy of Christy Turlington’s cover of TIME magazine (well almost) and am tucked in before midnight (Sleepytime tea and Melatonin, the combo does wonders). The perfect image of health and serenity, right? Skip to Saturday. Yes sir, bring on the American Spirits (I must go natural when my chain-smoking would make a Parisian cringe), bring on the booze (Grey Goose sodas only please), bring on the occasional pick me up (how else am I going to stay up til 4am?) and bring on the Cheetos at 5am (or whatever I can find at the corner deli)cause all that banquette booty-shakin can make a girl hungry! Working out? I’m lucky to leave my apartment let alone get to a gym. Waking up? Not before noon thank you. The paper? The Wall Street who? I wallow in ignorance and gluttony and I love every minute of it. Then come Monday, I’m back on my diet of downward dogs, detox drinks and the Daily Show to clear my organs and mind until another brutal bashing on Friday.

Final Word: Some would say I lead a balanced life- one good thing cancels one bad thing out, right? Others might say I’m insane. You decide.

Why the "city that never sleeps" may be putting us to bed.

It’s safe to say we have all grown a bit tired with New York nightlife. If I find myself one more time on the corner of 27th and 10th I may have to throw myself onto a moving taxi. Or at least, I would try. But they’re all at a stand-still.
First there was Bungalow. Then Marquee. Then Cain. But in the last year alone we’ve witnessed the birth of Home, Guesthouse, Bed and Stereo just to name a few. West Chelsea has turned into Mardi Gras—a drunken mess of tourists and wannabes.

Last week I found myself on the rare tour of the West Chelsea club circuit. I know, I know, but it was Fashion Week and some friends were in town and well, it just kinda happened. So when I got inside I desperately tried to search for something appealing. Familiar faces? No. Good DJ? Not really. Intimidatingly cool crowd? Absolutely not. So if all of New York’s “hottest” clubs completely fucking suck, what do people do for a good time in this town?

Now for me personally, I can have fun in a cardboard box. All I need is a stiff drink and a loaded iPod. But what about those people that need more direction? Who crave the scene? I mean honestly, where have all the club kids gone? And if you tell me fucking Encore, that’s it.

Though some will say, it’s Happy Valley. I happened to stumble in there last week for the after party of the Heatherette fashion show. Now, we’re all familiar with Richie Rich and his freakish little antics, but this crowd was a force to be reckoned with. I mean there were swings, and tutus and orange Mohawks. Not to mention, enough iridescent periwinkle eye shadow to paint the town purple. We did one lap and were out. “What the fuck was that all about?” we thought.

A week later I picked up the most recent issue of New York magazine only to find an album of images from that freakish night out. They were included in an article chronicling the return of Susanne Bartsch, the 55-year-old “underground iconoclast” whose 1980’s club promoting “cured New York of its post-disco hangover.” Like myself, she feels that “the state of nightlife today, it’s dismal! The clubs are soulless, dollar-driven. There is no energy.” So as a result, she has risen from her tomb of obscurity to host the Tuesday freak-fest at Happy Valley. But I honestly just didn’t get it.

So what does that make me? I am tragically cliché? Just bourgeois and bored? I hope not. Now, we may love our 80’s music, watch every John Hughes/Molly Ringwald marathon, and leggings have returned as this year’s True Religion jeans, but 80’s-style clubbing? Can our generation really hang? I mean, we were just wee little things back then. The raciest I got was mimicking the Thriller dance in front of the TV. Now I’m supposed to party like Susanne Bartsch? Or understand where she’s coming from with all this crazy masquerading? I don’t know about all of that.

The world has changed since then. We’ve had AIDS. We’ve had war. We’ve had hip-hop. And we’ve reacted to all of it. We’ve created a conformist society that we all—maybe reluctantly—are a part of. So does that make us boring? I guess. Or more maybe we’re just more realistic than we are voyeuristic. And personally, I think that’s a good thing. Now if I could just find myself I decent good time I’d be all set.

Final Word: Although truly decadent days may be behind us, that’s no reason to stop the party.

Love in the Big Apple

Last night was Valentine's Day and do I know one person who went out to or to be wined and dined? No. Why? Not because of a lack of involvement or dedication to match.com. But because New Yorkers are smarter than that. We go out the night before to skip the v-day groupie traffic in exchange for something actually intimate. We cook overpriced steaks from Whole Foods rather than ordering overpriced ones at Dylan Prime. We gather for cocktail parties where couples and singles mingle without the pressure of buying Perrier Jouet over "sparkling wine" that if you don't order will seal your fate as being "un-romantic". As my friend who hosted her own alter v-day gathering, put it wisely, "for those of you who luckily did not get sucked into that prix fix menu that every restaurant knows nobody enjoys but continues to do it anyway."

Does this mean we're less romantic? Heavens no! Au contraire, we're just more practical. Who wants to have a romantic dinner when everyone else around you is? It sounds like a scene from a bad Beauty and the Geek episode. So have your cheese and wine, but for god sake, don't do it on Valentine's Day.

Final Word: For those stragglers who have yet to book, here are my top choices:
1. Raoul's
2. Mas
3. 5 Ninth
4. Extra Virgin

Hello Moto

So my girlfriends and I trekked to Iron Chef Morimoto's new restaurant last Saturday night, yes during the blizzard. I was already plagued by a cold but you know how the saying goes, "Through rain, sleet and snow..." I'm a freaking US Postal worker when it comes to openings. Sans the polyester outfit of course. Yes even during the record-breaking blizzard of the millenium, we went out for stylish sushi. Turns out we weren't the only ones.

The restaurant was packed. I mean packed. Perhaps to celebrate the potential prolonging of global warming? Probably not. Intelligistas, fashionistas and culinaryistas (made that last one up) crowded the awe-inspiring space sipping lychee martinis and reciting lines form American Psycho (I swear, heard it with our own ears) completely oblivious to the raging tempest outside the oak walls. I even saw a girl with crutches. Crutches! For chrissake, stay home honey! You gotta love New York. Only here will people risk their neck to nibble on fashionable food, served with an attitude that would barely fill an Olsen twin. Thank god that wasn't the case.

The food was fresh, the portions were ample and the service was fast and friendly. Not counting the hour and a half we waited to get seated, I was impressed by how smooth everything went. Perhaps Morimoto works best under pressure, whether it be televised competition or natural disaster? Well considering the national and local crises of the past year (from earthquakes in Pakistan to the subway strike), here's hoping!

Final word: Go with a group. That way you can order everything on the menu. Overload on the appetizers since they're better than the sushi. Try the spicy king crab leg, the rock shrimp tempura (updated nobu version, iron chef style) and the calamari salad. And check out the bathroom.

What's black and white, striped and chic all over?

My favorite spring trend to hit the runway (and there have been many faves) is without a doubt stripes. No, not the kind you’ll find on Where’s Waldo, a TGIF waitress or a Candy Striper costume from Ricky’s. Although all are equally entertaining. I’m talking about the stripes that make a girl look effortlessly chic. Think Brigitte Bardot strolling in St. Tropez (Pre-Diddy and Paris of course)and
ingénue Jean Seaberg in French film “Breathless” circa 1960 (see above).

Stripes are so starkly simple, they're refreshing after an era of bohemian excess. I love them because they’re just so French – and who doesn’t want to look like an innocent gamine?

Final Word: To make them a bit more modern, pair your stripes with black opaque stockings and very of the moment platform patent heels à la Amanda Peet in “Igby Goes Down”. Crackhead eyeliner optional.

Bette was Better than I thought...

Restaurant. 23rd street and 10th Avenue.

Why did I feel the need to go to Amy Sacco's restaurant Bette? For the hype? Probably. For the scene? Definitely. For the food? Um, spaghetti by Sacco? I don't think so.

Well I was pleasantly surprised. The mega-trendy eatery I was anticipating turned out to be a cozy, intimate living room-like space that felt welcoming and warm for a Wednesday night during Fashion Week. Minus the ultra-unfortunate celeb sighting of Anne Hathway in a floor length gown who was desperately trying to compensate for her non-existant Oscar nomination, the crowd was chill, fashionably intelligent-looking and (gasp!) actually having a good time. Our neighboring table just happened to be discussing their good friend Sienna’s new singledom. How chic. Nothing like eating truffled green beans while eavesdropping on the latest Brit gossip fodder.

Final word: Happy to say I went but wouldn't go as far to say I'd return.

PR Woes

Opinion. Fashion PR. Note to anyone who wants to get involved in fashion PR. If you’re perky as all hell and are fashion obsessed then by all means – this job is for you. I thought I was both. Turns out, some things are better appreciated at a distance. Like a car wreck.

Here are a few of my peeves:

1. Those god damn smiley faces and exclamation points

-Without them, the PR industry would not exist. It’s like we’re all on crack/cocaine/speed (well, in some cases we are) and just need to get a hit of samples or credit info. Watch out, without them you’ll be considered, depressed, anti-social or worst of all uninterested. If I never have to write another “Thanks!! You’re the best!!! :)” it won’t be soon enough.

2. Events

OK, I get it. You're in PR, you have to show your face. But why?? It's not a secret, everybody hates going. We're all just secretly misreable to be in this industry so we sedate ourselves with Stepford Wives syndrome to mask the pain. Cue smiley face and exclamation points.

3. Sample pulls

Oh lord where do I begin. How many times do I have to politely ask to get samples back, via email, via phone, via I’m gonna have to come up to Conde Nast and pull the god damn sample back myself if you don’t get back to me sometime this millennium.

4. No love

Do I need to elaborate on how under-paid pr girls are? We put up with the most asanine shit from clients, get freebies we don't even want and sweet talk every body under the sun- I think we deserve a little compensation. Which brings me to my next point.

5. Kissing Ass

Oh this one never ends. Not for editors, not for the d-list celebrities, not for the boss. You wanna be in PR? Then pucker up my friend.

The list could go on but I have to go find a god damn shoe that Vogue has kept for over a month, that they have no record of or any intention of featuring. I love my job.

Fashion Week and Spinach Dip

Event. Fashion Week. Fall 2006 Fashion Week is upon us and the world as I know it has come to a screeching halt. Every restaurant is flooded with editors, buyers and international hangers-on (yes, groupies are global), models stampede the streets and Bryant Park is ground zero.

What makes the whole ordeal the most despicable is the outright rudeness and sense of entitlement circulating throughout the tents. Who do these people think they are? Be forewarned, fashionistas are not afraid of shoving, hissing degrading comments or blabbering on their cell phones during the most important moment of these poor (and I do mean poor) designers’ lives. I’ve only seen such a specific lack of decorum by industry insiders in movies like Ready to Wear and SNL skits, but to witness it firsthand was a different story. People still wear sunglasses indoors? Guess so. Yes, even post 911, post tsunami and post Katrina, the “greater than thou” sentiment is still very much alive in New York City– don’t you just love fashion week?

Thank god my final stop was the beloved Houston’s restaurant where I met my usual Tuesday date night crew for some grub and gossip. Here mink Prada coats and North Face fleeces mingle in perfect harmony. Yes at Houston’s, fries are fashionable, spinach dip is star worthy and ribs are de rigeur. Here you can come clad in sweats and still be served with a smile. Only thing- gentlemen, no hats. Come on, even Houstons’ must keep a little decorum.

Space Shoes

Chanel Spring 06 Sandals. Fashion. Leave it to Lagerfeld to keep us on our toes - literally. Mr. Lagerfeld’s latest creation for his spring/summer Chanel collection is footwear for the future. Skywalker meets punk rocker, these sandals (if you can call them that) look more at home on Mars than on Madison Avenue. But that’s why we love them. A complete break from Ms. Coco Chanel’s tradition of tweed suits, these lambskin leather flats exhibit Mr. Lagerfeld’s ingenious imagination and constant push for something new. They’re so freakishly different, that’s what draws us to them. And isn’t that what fashion is all about?

Final word: Though seemingly catwalk material, let’s hope these flats reach stores so that we can rock them with super short-shorts, a Babyshambles tee (or rock band du jour) and vest and step our way into the future. Beam us up Karl-y.