So, when we're bored and feeling bitchy (ergo, a LOT of the time) my friend and I like to engage in rapid-fire IMs where we send each other pictures of the clothes and accessories we adore/abhor and exchange positive feedback/bile. For example, she could send me a picture of her younger sister's "My Boyfriend Is Out Of Town" T-shirt and I could snark back "What, attending the 'My Girlfriend Is A Style-Free Tramp With No Dignity' convention? Oh, BURN!" And I would probably write the "Oh, BURN!", because that's just who I am. Or I could send her a picture of these incredible green patent-leather Christian Louboutins, and she could say, "Sweet God, those are STUNNING, when you win the lottery you have to buy those immediately." And then we could have a five-hour conversation about what we would do if we actually won the lottery, and how much money would we have to automatically give to charity in this fantasy so that God will smile upon us at our act of altruism and actually someday let us WIN the real lottery. You know, like when those kids on daytime television donate all their fancy Christmas presents to the local homeless shelter because even though they're rich and privileged they're still selfless and noble and have a social conscience, and then it turns out some wealthy friend of the family is completely blown away by the kid's act of generosity and buys the kid like sixty NEW Christmas presents and they get left under the tree anonymously, and the kid is all "Wow, there really IS a Santa Claus!" And the parents exchange knowing looks, and chuckle and ruffle the kid's hair.
By the way, I would just like to state that this is not how it works in real life. If you donate your Christmas presents to the needy kids' toy drive...those presents are gone. Nobody is going to buy you a state-of-the-art computer and a mountain bike and a chocolate fountain as a reward for your good deed.
Anyway. What was my point? Oh right...
So the other night my friend and I were engaging in this IM discussion. We started out making fun of the shiny gold bike shorts (!?!) over at the American Apparel website, then gradually worked our way over to the canvas ankle boots (designed to swallow your calves and plunge you firmly into cankle territory, if you don't already reside there) at urbn.com. But then, a horrible thing happened. I came across these pink skinny jeans from Urban Outfitters. Of course, my instinct reaction was nausea followed by mocking. But as I attached the picture into the conversation and prepared to send it to her, an awful thing started happening. I began to...maybesortofkindof like them.
I will now transcribe (more or less) what happened after I pasted the picture in.

Me- So what do you think of these pants?
Her- Oh my God. It looks like someone painted two fire hydrants fuchsia, hollowed them out and stuck legs in them (Ed.- it doesn't make sense, but then, if you look at the pants and blink, it kind of does).
Me- But you don't even think they're kind of cute?
Her- Surely you jest.
Me- Je ne jest pas. I think they would work kind of well with my funky pumps? No? And that black shirt?
Her- No. Just...no.
Me- But how about in a different color, like blue? They have them in blue and light green, too.
Her- Do you actually not see the front-crotch-crease camel toe thing they're doing to the model? What is up with Urban Outfitters and camel toe lately (Ed.- I showed her the picture of the romper from my last post)?
Me- But you really don't think they'd be cute AT ALL? Just for when I'm bored with jeans?
Her- Who are you?

So, after that I went off into a little bit of a huff, as I am wont to do (I'm a sensitive girl). However, after careful consideration I realized that these pants are Those Pants. The ones that look relatively innocent and cute in the store, like you'd see them and think "Hmmm, those would inject some funky color into my wardrobe without making me look like a Crayola", but then when you try them on, your ass instantly becomes the size of the Grand Canyon and your thighs are twin giant Sequoias and you have to stand there miserably in the dressing room trying to sluice yourself out of them while gorgeous thin girls prance around in the same exact pants looking like the proverbial Carefree Skinny Bitch. It's not just that they wouldn't look good on me (although I don't think they would)- I'm just not sure if they're that cute in general. I don't know, though- they might be really nice on those super-slim, waify body-type girls. Feedback? Don't worry, I haven't bought them or anything, so you won't be offending me. Bitch away! Or alternately, tell me if you love them. But the bitching is always more fun.

Speaking of bitching-

I hate these shoes. I'm sorry if you own them (you probably do, since everyone in the English-speaking world appears to). But I hate them. In fact, I hate them so much that I have personified them.
If these Tory Burch flats were a person, they would be an Upper-East-Side-of-Manhattan version of Regina George. They would have violently blonde hair, and toast-colored skin straight out of the Clinique Radiant Bronze bottle, and their cashmere sweaters and calfskin stilettos would cost more than the average down-payment of a small three-bedroom house in Westchester County. They would spend so much time frantically stabbing at their Crackberry, you'd think it was providing them with oxygen. They would laugh at you, and whisper things to their bitchy brunette friend, and date milquetoast guys from good families and intern at upper-crust fashion publications. Le sigh.
I've seen the shoe phenomenon before, but is it really necessary for every girl in New York City to own these shoes? If I see one more toe-medallion, I don't know what I might do but I promise you it will not be good and ieui2jcfhe89qruw9djh8934239jchr7eqwryeiureqw8ruewijiojejdshjssaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh...
*Breathes deeply*
I'm sorry.
I'll be fine.
To get my mind off this very pressing and disturbing shepidemic (shoe epidemic. It's been a long day, okay?), I will be posting some pictures of stuff that I would give a firm online thumbsies-upsies to.

What is it about this Temperley London dress that makes me crave it so? It's so simple, yet it looks like it would befit a simple, beautiful milkmaid who wears it out to collect the day's milk with braided hair (only not gross trendoid Sienna Miller braids, real braids) and a glowing smile, making the hearts of cute lederhosen-bedecked farmhands everywhere churn for her. I just want to get my inner Fifi Lapin on and wear it with some funky wedges. The better to yodel and climb mountains with.

I am going to share with you all a story about a young girl of perhaps eight or nine years of age who owned a pair of cow-printed pants from Benetton. The young girl treasured her cow-printed pants above all other earthly possessions, so much so that she desired to wear them with everything, from her puffy Land's End vests to her The Children's Place sherbert-colored turtlenecks to her "My Grandma Went To Barbados And All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt" shirt. Please don't judge me, sweet readers, but- the young girl was me, and the Benetton pants were mine. It is not something I am proud of, but merely a fact. Personally, I don't understand how I went through two years of my life in those pants without at least ONE person shouting out "I could've used a little more cowbell!" or "You're gonna want that COWBELL on the track!" If I saw someone in cow-printed pants, the temptation would be too great. I eventually stopped wearing them, after repeated suggestions from loved ones that they were just not...well, not quite right. But they had great sentimental value. You know on "What Not To Wear", when the toothy bitch and the bitchy, somewhat awesome queen are raiding closets, and the fashion victim du jour is all, "No! Not my stretchy cougar-print tracksuit with the rhinestone enamel! I was wearing that when I met my boyfriend! It has PERSONAL VALUE!" That's what my pants were like. I was just a wee young thing, but I implicitly understood the value of a Favorite Pair Of Pants, even an ill-advised cow-printed pair.
The relevance of this story to the shoes is...er...oh, right. When I first saw these Stella McCartney wedges, my heart started to beat faster as I thought "Oh my God, are they COW-PRINT?" Alas, they are simply black-and-white floral print, and therefore bear little resemblance to my Late, Great Cow-Print Benetton Trousers. However, they are wickedly amazing, cow-print or not, and I want to wear them with a simple white cotton sundress and look all effortless and chic. I think they would be a fitting tribute to The Pants That Got Away.

This "Journalist" dress from Modcloth may look drab, dull, even frumpy. HOWEVER. It is nipped in the waist and the little keyhole opening at the top, combined with the sexy silky belt-facsimile, make it the epitome of Le Sex. If I for some reason decide to become a journalism major, I will wear this dress to class and feel very film-noir. In fact, even if I decide to major in pancakes at The University Of Nothing, I will still wear this dress ALL THE TIME. For it is a jolly good dress, for it is a jolly good dress, for it is a jolly good dre-ess, which nobody can deny...

There is only one passable reaction to shoes like these Miu Mius, and it is "Hot damn" followed by a sharp intake of breath whilst one admires their glories. They are both sparkly and shiny and T-strap and New-Years'-Eve and silvery and they are actually making me a little bit weak in the knees. I want to be married- and buried, as a matter of fact- in these shoes. I want to MARRY these shoes. I want to surgically attach them to my feet. You think I'm exaggerating? I will go and GET A SURGEON RIGHT NOW. And also, I'll need about three zillion dollars to buy the shoes themselves. And to pay the medical bills.

Gaah. Gaah! I must have this dress. It's one of those rare items of clothing that would appeal to both me and my mother. It looks like a sexed-up version of something that American Girl doll would wear. You know, the one with the grosgrain hair ribbon and the unwittingly chic flat velvet hat? Samantha, I think it was. I never liked her much. I liked the feisty one with red hair. Actually, I think she would probably wear this dress nicely as well. It would go great with that hair. I've always wanted red hair, and been so jealous of redheads- I once attempted to color my hair a L'Oreal Pulse shade of "Cherry", but let's just say that was not a time which anybody really needs to remember.

Pucci swirly cardigan-coat. Need I say more? Okay, I'll just say this- with dark gray opaque tights and black boots. Le fin.

Insert your own obligatory hacky joke about "I'm seeing red!" or "Red scare!" or "Scarlet fever"! I think we- and by we, I mean the fashion magazine industry- needs to come up with some better color-themed cliches. How about- "Red, you go to my head"? I think that's from an old M&Ms commercial, actually. God, this advertising business is no easy feat.
I very much want to be the kind of girl who wears red monkey earrings and ballet flats, maybe with an LBD or just a plain old boring pair of jeans. And I definitely, DEFINITELY think these two items should be sold together. Then there could be some embarrassing, hacky joke about "Double trouble!" or "Double the fun!" God, I hate the modern world of advertising sometimes.

Being somewhat anal-retentive and obsessive and controlling about clothing, a few years ago I went so far as to devise for myself a Rainy-Day Outfit- purty flowered hippie green tank, dark jeans, awesome Wellington boots, string of faux costume-jewelry pearls. However, I could never find the right umbrella...until today. C'est merveilleux, non?

Phwoarrr. Marc Jacobs, you incorrigible man, you. These shoes are the most perfect flats I have ever seen in all my born days. It's a little disturbing, how easily I am unhinged by a good pair of shoes. Especially ones that actually look like you could wear them without feeling like a tiny army of elves was digging a pickaxe deep into your heel and winding up sitting in the corner in a comfortable chair by the end of the evening, swearing like a fisherman and holding rapidly melting ice to your swollen feet in a most unladylike manner. Not that this happens to me. Much.

This Biba bishop-sleeve printed smock dress seems like it's one of those little dresses that look fabulous on skinny little sylphs, but do odd things to those endowed with a larger chest and stomach and whatnot. Still. It is perfect for wanton indulgence and basking in the sunshine listening to the Beatles.

No, your eyes do not deceive you. It is a Devo wallet. Whip it. Whip it good. When a problem comes along. You must whip it. Before the cream sits out too long. You must whip it. When something's going wrong. You must whip it. Now whip it. Into shape.

THE MUSIC, TV AND MOVIE CORNER- I have sinned. The other night I was sitting idly in front of my TV, and I found myself sitting through sixty full minutes of...brace yourself, boys and girls...ONE TREE HILL (cue the horror-movie thunder-and-lightning effects). It is disturbingly bad, and I find Chad Michael Murray as well as That Other Guy On The Show Who's Not Chad Michael Murray to be boring and vaguely unattractive, but there was kind of a sick fascination about it, like I HAD to find out what it was in order to loathe it appropriately. I also viewed a classic- Pretty in Pink- on the elliptical at the gym tonight. I think everybody was actually pretty freaked out by how my face looked when Molly Ringwald cut that f/n dress up into a sack. I mean, why? Just...why? Why, Molly Ringwald? Why? Why would one take a perfectly pretty- if overly pink- dress and unleash scissor hell upon it? Did you think it made you look good, Molly Ringwald? Because I'll tell you the truth, Molly Ringwald- it made you look like you were trying to hide a scoliosis brace under layers of pink fabric. And while I'm as much of a Deenie fan as any other girl, and I have nothing but utmost respect for scoliosis sufferers and Judy Blume characters in general, I'm pretty sure that's not the look you were going for, the whole scoliosis thing. So, in conclusion- shut up, Molly Ringwald. It's one thing to cut up your dad's old T-shirt in the hopes that you will concoct a stunning and avant-garde minidress and you can tell everyone offhandedly that you made it yourself from an old tee "lying around the house" and actually end up ruining a perfectly good tee. It's another to destroy a prom dress that doesn't belong to you. In non-John-Hughes-related news, I have discovered Goldfrapp and have been playing "Ooh La La" at top volume for twenty-three hours straight. My neighbors are probably starting to get pissed. Well, you know what, aging hippies? I have to listen to YOU blast AC/DC ALL DAY, DON'T I?

SIGHTINGS- Six hundred pairs of Tory Burch flats. And the demise of individuality and style as we know it. Also, I have an Overheard In New York worthy of the overheardinnewyork.com website. I was in Ricky's for sparkly false eyelashes (don't ask) and I saw a girl hold up a "Hebrew School Dropout" T-shirt and ask her friends "Am I Jewish enough for this shirt?" And one of the friends shook her head sadly and responded, "No." You can't make this shit up. Ooh, and some girl came into Cool Vintage Store wearing an excellent little veiled hat. It wasn't aggressively Carrie-Bradshaw-ooh-look-at-me; it was just sort of quietly amazing.

CURRENT ATTIRE- Feeling pretty good with my outfit in a pair of green opaque wool tights (not Peter Pan green or lime, sort of Kelly green), black flat slouchy boots, and a long-sleeved pale-green-and-white top under a short vintage black BCBG dress. It sounds weird, but I think it's cute. And it's been cold as hell here lately, so I can get away with the constant tights.

So, exams are over! And I somehow passed everything! I know my posting's been sporadic, but I'll work on it. And yes, I learned the definition of that word from Clueless. When are you people going to figure out that I learned everything worth knowing from Clueless?

Ciao, Roma.

P.S. Lipstick Lady, I'm sorry most of your blog got deleted! :^( That is a little sad emoticon man being sad for you.