It's January 2018 which is hard to believe. We are up and running which is incredible to say. 2017 was incredibly kind in most imaginable ways which is a sharp contortion from 2016, a year that I told to kiss my ass ringing in and to kiss my ass ringing out. 2018 is already in a league of it's own -- look at me, day one throwing that out to the universe. My disclaimer for this blog and every subsequent one - unless I'm silenced by the FCC and this becomes the only one blog - is that I write like I speak. Those who know me, really know me and those who don't -- you could likely get offended, at least until you both know and understand me better. But because my parents are still vertical and I would like them to still love me and claim me as theirs, I will try to keep my mouth hygienic, while also acknowledging that an occasional well-placed expletive will inevitably appear. Mom, I'm sorry. Dad, keep telling mom everything is going to be just fine.
"What is the best, most universal accessory every woman should have?" my mother asks as we trail behind a woman I'd like to gag, bag and makeover. "A three-way mirror," I respond. "Baby, that's not an accessory." Semantics, mama. Every human needs one. Think of the three-way as a cheap version of a personal stylist. Both are an investment and neither will ever lie. You would be smart to take any advice from either but you can look away when they're screaming at you. (But please consider that the rest of us can't look-away when it comes to your poor style choices.) Check the rear-view mirror, please. A look over the right shoulder, and then a look over the left shoulder is not an accurate painting of what is really happening on the flip side. They should pull all little girls aside in the 3rd grade, right when they tell us to romantically avoid rockstars and professional athletes, and share that piece of valuable information. It's like asking your husband, a man I'm assuming really does want to live, whether you look good in your outfit. If you have to ask him, you don't. If his response is "fine", you don't. When it comes to fashion, "fine" is about as jacked-up word as they come. I would like to think after rolling out of bed or giving birth with a failed-epidural that I look fine.
So in our inaugural blog, I am setting up some basic guidelines. I'm calling them guidelines so I don't blow you all up the first time you're here but if I'm being honest, they are simple, non-negotiable rules like the rule I gave my ex-husband when he and his Pike-house buddies would take off multiple time a year to Las Vegas and Cabo. Don't come home dead. That's it. No room for misinterpretation. I'm a straightforward kind of girl so here it goes:
1. Thou shall purchase clothes that fit you, with rare exceptions . Yes, you can buy larger and have them tailored. You can lose weight and have them tailored. But unless you happen to have a Hollywood seamstress on payroll, don't buy a size 2 when you wear an 8 and expect that any tweaking will make it look normal. It won't. Trust me, I've done the leg-work. Don't purchase clothes too small thinking they will be an incentive to diet and exercise. They won't. (Please reference the ivory fringed Chanel skirt currently listed. F!)
If a garment either smooshes or shoves your boobs to almost nipple-baring proportions, it doesn't fit. Actually, if it distorts them in any way, it doesn't fit. (Either that or you have a bad plastic surgeon. If so, call me, I have your guy.) . If your sides are spilling over your skirts or pants, yes, you are correct, it doesn't fit. And that applies to all women, all sizes. Spillage doesn't discriminate -- too small is too small. You'll likely hear me shove this guideline down your throat again.
2. The Onsie-Twosie Rule or as my mother would say “you can have anything you want, you can’t have everything” OR more simply stated it's the how-not-to-look-like-a-hooker clause. The premise of this one is that too much of a good thing is never a good thing. I love a smokey eye. I love a red lip (not necessarily on me but on you, yes). Pair them together and you’ve just joined Vivian and Kit on Hollywood Blvd. In 7th grade my girlfriends named me Mini --not as in mouse, as in skirt. I adore mini skirts. Pair it with a boatneck cashmere sweater and strappy sandals or pair it with a cashmere turtleneck and boots. Either way I will ambush you wherever you are and tell you how fantastic you look. But pair that same skirt with a low-cut blouse and you’re back to the Boulevard hanging somewhere between John Belushi and Lassie. That low-cut blouse or clingy boob-top? Pair it will cropped cigarette pants and classic pointed pumps or skinny jeans and over-the-knee boots. “Less is more” is not something that usually free-flows out of my mouth except when it comes to sexy. Sexy overdone is a prostitute.
3. Wear whatever the Mother Goose you want. Lot’s of caveats to this particular one. If you want to turn the world upside down in something so ridiculously fancy, then do. If your spouse wants to water himself down, than let him. Nobody in my world can ever out-dress or up-stage their spouse or partner. Caveat one, if your husband is in a black suit and meets you at the service for his dearly-departed Aunt and you're in a Lili Pulitzer sundress then fuck you, he’s in the right (and because I'm a fan of yours, that won't typically come out of my mouth twice). But if you’re going to a steakhouse and feel a San Francisco Ballet-worthy ball-gown coming on and he's feeling jeans and flip-flops then I say live and let live — besides all the focus will be entirely on you. And you love the spotlight.
4. Just say no to the flat. I should've started here because this one is a doozy. Repeat after me: tennis shoes of any breed belong in the gym and in the gym only. "What if I'm sick?" Nope. "Going to the market?" Negative. "Sick and going to the market". Oh you sweet thing. NO. "But mine are cute Keds" <Isabelle Marrant wedges or Yeezy-- substitute whatever jacked-up shoe you want here>. You can't. You just can't. There happens to be a thing called FMS - frumpy mom syndrome and sadly, you don't even have to have little life-sucking, home-dwelling maggots to catch it. See the hot guy at Costco on a Saturday morning with his wife in sweats and sneakers? Somewhere the poor dear contracted it. She used to have style because she used to care and then she gave up the fight. You know that same hot guy? He's actually banging the checker named Michelle in lane 3. Why? Because his wife no longer gives a fuckity-fuck-fuck-FUCK (*) about how she dresses (oh mom, I am so sorry). Michelle waxes weekly and brushes twice daily. Her breath smells you shoved peppermint and dandelions down her throat and she wears a brand of jeans that doesn't reference her daughter's. That and her heals are higher than the ones you wore to prom. Her makeup is flawless and her jewelry is sparkling. The wife? She rocking the Sketchers and she's not putting out so Michelle's got the golden ticket. But I digress. NO TENNIS SHOES EXCEPT AT THE GYM. And I'm going to be a stickler because I truly mean inside the gym. (Meaning you are to arrive at said facility in Aquazzura wedges or the Aqua Manolo Hangisi's you saved up for the last 3 years and change into your troll-stomping sneakers when nobody is looking). Remember that hot firemen pulling you from the wreckage of your car so you had to wear sexy, clean panties? Same guys are going to rescue you from underneath the wreckage of your treadmill. Ask my friend, Francesca and then file that away.
5. The monogamy of fragrance. Choose a fragrance and make it your own and have it be part of the experience of you. I was passionately married to Clinique Happy for damn-near two decades and then one morning I rolled over and looked my fragrance-partner in the eye and knew it was over because I had fallen in love with someone knew. And that someone was Jo Malone Nectarine Blossom and Honey. I've had dozens of men tell me it's ecstasy in a bottle and a lesbian at a bar in San Francisco stop dead in her tracks to sniff me. Fragrance is personal and like everything else you put on, is both a reflection and expression of you. I went through a divorce, the subsequent relationship and break-up that followed, not to mention a dissolution from my career in corporate finance and whenever any of those fellas smell that scent, even if it's on their mothers, they think of yours truly. It's indelible reminder that you were there.
6. Know thy self better than you know anybody else. Be able to elevator-answer who you are, what you do and what you believe in. Then add a few tidbits that make you YOU:
Charitable organization I fully support: Stopping Traffic (stoppingtrafficfilm.com)
Favorite saying: The Joy is in the Ride
Favorite Book: A Mighty Heart
Color I would rather not wear: Black. That's probably inhuman. I'm not saying I won't, it's just not my thing. White's my color. It always has been leading me to think I should maybe get married a few more times. You know, always a bride, never a bridesmaid?
Beauty Product I could never live without: Unite Texture Spray
What I collect: Ball gowns
Favorite city in the world and yes, you can only choose one: San Fran baby
What I loathe: People who are mean-spirited for sport. Be deplorable because you are genuinely a dick and for no other reason. Stand for something real. That's authenticity
Political party or candidate you identify with: Ha, you thought I was going to go there. Really, what you believe in or what I do is not nearly as important as being able to articulate why. I tell my boys the importance of being able to back up why you do or don't support someone or something
So why in a style blog am I saying all of this? As Judge Judy said, "beauty fades, dumb is forever". You could be wearing Haute Couture and if you aren't able to articulate who you are and what means the most to you, typically it's unrecoverable. Fashion and good style are beautiful. So is intelligence.
From Laguna Beach, California - the High Priestess OUT.
"Life loves to be taken by the lapel and told 'I'm with you kid, let's go'." - Maya Angelou