I woke up in the very tiniest hours of Tuesday morning—right around when we were supposed to be experiencing the eye of Blizzard 2015 here—to see that it wasn’t snowing even a speck. But there was a pretty dusting over the streets, and the travel ban had turned the city into a ghost town. So I didn’t sleep for a few hours, and instead just sat up in the living room—two walls of which are windows—and enjoyed the kind of deathly calm my little corner of downtown never knows. Then snow plows came, and after that a rogue car or two, and as the sun rose, I spied a few early risers in the park across the street, and felt a sudden urge to walk the pretty virgin snow before it became ugly New York City snow. So I suited up the dog and put on my snow boots and the hulking, ugly industrial-strength parka I pull out on days when it’s really messy out and I especially don’t give a shit, and off we went. And then I came back home and passed out for a few hours.
Later, I went out searching for signs of life, and found more than I had perhaps bargained for in Nolita: stylish people in well-cut winter gear were out on the streets, in the stores, having coffee with one another and looking altogether smart. Did I mention that the industrial-strength parka is one size too big—adding a good ten pounds to my frame—and comes to my shins? And that my hairstyle was basically my hat? I had a sudden attack of giving a shit, and headed south on Mott Street to less perilously stylish environs. Which put me right in the path of No. 6, on whose website I had spied some surpassingly cute clogs just hours earlier. I was in no mood to encounter the stylish shopgirls and customers of No. 6, but I pressed on. And learned a little something about myself: the vain part of my brain doesn’t stand a change when pitted against the acquisitive part.
I won’t be able to wear them for months, but are they not adorable?
I love a really good snowstorm; there are few things quite so awesome as watching Mother Nature bring even this most frenetic of cities to a screeching halt. Still, this one looks like it might skew scary and dangerous, and so I’m sending my thoughts to all of you in its path. Stay safe, indoors—70mph winds, people!—and dry. It is precisely for days like this that those evil geniuses at Amazon invented Instant Video. Meanwhile, I have done my version of storm preparedness: checked the flashlight, water, and candle supplies, and had a truly epic top-of-the-morning visit to the local Whole Foods for provisions (my necessities, you might be surprised to note, are simple and few: I greet any excuse to live off of PB & J for a few days as the stuff of dreams).
Meanwhile, does my Sammy look like a handsome devil or what in his new Barbour coat?
Hello everyone, and apologies for my absence. It turns out I needed a little break. And I’m really glad I took it. But this is my promise to you: no more disappearing without letting you know in advance. I have missed you.* Meanwhile: here’s my favorite new neighborhood street art, discovered on Thursday morning’s dog walk.
Here’s where I spent Jewish Christmas (aka lunch in Chinatown). Best chicken dish in the whole neighborhood.
And here’s the inn where where I spent New Year’s. Tribeca Mom and spouse are part-owners. If you’re ever in the vicinity of Salisbury, Connecticut, do make your destination the White Hart Inn—dogs welcome! Take all of your meals there and by all means stick around for Trivia Night.
Tribeca Mom wore the perfect winter white corduroys, so of course I’m totally copying her. Just as soon as the holiday pudge subsides.
And I’m all set for parkas, but boy do I love hers.
I am duty-bound—due to my Maria Cornejo obsession as well as to my commitment to bringing you the chic—to let you know that their current sale is a little slice of heaven.
*And I’m beyond touched that so many of you checked in to see if everything was OK, and to rally me to come back soon.
A bag of Bean Cuisine soup mix, given to me by my first office crush—who clearly did not reciprocate—in 1989.
In 1991, I bought the Anna Sui black and white check mini-suit you see here—minus the newsboy cap, and with a wee little skirt instead of shorts. It cost around $400, which represented enough of my paycheck at the time that I literally broke out in a sweat when I laid down my credit card. I never wore it all that much—life doesn’t call much for mini-suits, after all—but I will say this: while I’ve gone on to spend way more on far fancier items, no purchase since has ever felt quite so special.
Clothing or accessory-wise, that is. I’d guess for me it’s my rings—if for no other reason than that I wear so many of them.
This question is so hard for me to answer that I almost didn’t ask you guys to; my makeup loyalties are many. But off we go: number one with a bullet is BB Tinted moistiurizer from Tarte, which I bought over the winter when I was breaking out badly with what I’m pretty sure was roseaca. I needed something with good coverage so I wouldn’t scare small children when I walked down the street, and it’s great on that front: it totally evens you out, and you can still see you skin, which is key. But the truly amazing thing about this stuff—and I almost don’t want to say this for fear I’ll jinx it—is that pretty much as soon as I started using it, my breakout started to clear. And it has not returned even once. People have been complimenting me on my skin a lot these days and I tell them it’s because of all the green juice I drink (I drink so much green juice, and the gunky all-vegetable kind too). But really, it’s this magic potion, I’m pretty sure.
I had never been able to pull off a true, classic red lip until I picked up this stain and now I’m obsessed. Somehow, the fact that it’s in a chubby pencil format and not an actual lipstick makes it less scary-pigmenty and ten times easier to apply.
You know it has to be good, because the name is so annoying that there’s no way I’d use it if it wasn’t.
Check out my new fluffy pink jacket—the one that, when I included it in a post a while back, inspired comparisons in the comments to both a chenille bed jacket and the Muppets. Neither assessment is without merit. And to be frank, the jacket has received a mixed reception. “It’s a thing,” said my most trusted style advisor, by which she meant: trying too hard by a mile. And possibly it is. But I care not. Careful good taste is all well and good, but too much of it makes me sleepy.
But enough about me: your purchases (or fantasy purchases) please.
Don’t get me wrong; the crimes against style during fashion week were many.
Grown women dressed like children.
To an astonishing degree.
Really, it was almost too seductive.
Meanwhile, apparel looked like creatures.
Bags looked like toys.
And there was a convergence-of-the-nouvelle- Stepfords thing going on that I can’t even begin to understand.
Possibly you can explain.
But there was something else going on too; something kind of great. Photographers took their eyes off the clown college auditions long enough to shoot some of the many, many women who turn up at the shows looking absolutely fantastic. These are the women I’m always telling you about—editors and buyers for whom attending the collections is work, not a spectacle. These are women who encounter every trend that comes down the pike each season, and develop a style that—at its best—is the very chicest version of classic. Check out the oversized shirt here, so excellent and crisp, and the leather skirt, which is perfectly and simply tailored. And the fact that she accessorized with espadrilles instead of something dead serious just delights.
Another nice example of how little it can take to get things fantastically right: the quilting of the skirt combined with the shirt’s stripes is such a sophisticated (and wicked simple) take on playing with textures and prints. (Here’s that shirt if you’re dying for it—as I, predictably, am)
OK, these two get a couple of points deducted for dressing in jackets when it was by no stretch of the imagination jacket weather last week, but I like how much they both look like people who’ve found their signature looks and stuck with them.
I just want to share for a moment that Emmanuelle Alt, editor of of French Vogue, is 47, and she is looking pretty damn good in leather pants for 47.
And just in case you guys are beginning to fear that I am only a proponent only of the boring, the solid, and the safe: here is a balls-out print that works fabulously well, and here is why: its wearer has wisely decided to make it her outfit’s single statement, instead of piling on the lunchbox handbags and whatnot. She does have fun with the sunglasses, but it is the kind of fun that creates harmony with the dress, instead of fighting violently against it for attention.
I just love this picture because so many women in my former line of work looked exactly like this. They were the ones who always had fresh manis.
And finally: Lauren Hutton shows the kids how it’s done.
Pictures via The Cut, Marie Claire, Racked, Style.com and Vogue.
I am neither a fan of the loafer, nor that which is conspicuously designer-branded; my style only just ever-so-slightly skews preppy. And yet I crave myself a pair of Gucci horsebit loafers something fierce. And you?