Clamoring for affection from the retail vestiges like some fashion decay, I corner-spotted these skinnies and thought what the hell, why not add a little color rush to the manically gloomy weather inconsistencies.  A hastened turn-on-heel and about a minute’s thought later, I surrendered to their visual residency regardless the legion of the others jam-packed in my wardrobe.  Outfitted with faded knees and an obvious cherry-siren glory, I confess…  I’m semi-addicted to their valentine sweetness.

What else:

The writing forefront is fantastic, toying with some unshakable ideas.

Expensive latte concoctions at noon.

Berries by the bulk.

Waiting impatiently for a handful of e-Bay items to arrive.

Finally scored the coveted Emma Cook boots for Topshop.

Tonight, episodes of House.

Random photos with the camera love child.

Oh, yeah… quit f***ing spamming my site! 

As I wrap my mind around it like some unreal fantasy, I realize the thing about closets is that they contain much more than clothes, shoes, and handbags… apparently they store our lives in a fashion nutshell.  The pair of jeans we refuse to surrender, the t-shirt worn only in the company of our laptops, the torn and tatty sweater we forgot we owned, and even that hideous pair of heels that while the 80’s called and said they want them back… vintage really isn’t the appropriate word. Okay, there might be ramifications to these actions but let’s face it… it’s going to take more than a militia of angry fashion mobsters before we ever throw in the towel on all our favorite things.  With that said, I suppose it’s true that while some depend on the sanctuary of comfort food, given the circumstance, this is really a cut and dry case of comfort clothes and shoes. 

So, after that late night dinner party I aforementioned, and several cocktails later, I started rifling through my closet, one of my natural habitats.  And I couldn’t help wondering why I was hoarding all these items like some dirty little secret.  But most importantly…  I couldn’t figure out when (exactly) I’d managed to collect all of it. Anyway.

Lounging around the domicile in a beat-up Wang t-shirt and VS jumper, the afternoon slips away as I enthusiastically make some headway through the blogosphere and about 345 e-mails… not to mention, deciphering all of the flourishing ideas tangling about inside the memory warehouse for my newest novel, as well the short fiction piece I’m (also) currently pondering. 

It’s exhausting just thinking about it, so maybe I should’ve jokingly prefaced the above declaration by adding that the Smirnoff laptop garnish is helping to variable degrees.

Arbitrary side note:  The weekend came with a juxtaposition of what has been deemed The Invention of Leisure Chaos… and while there’s still plenty to conquer before the workweek reappears, tonight–after a quick dinner party–I have every intention of curling up and watching relic episodes of Felicity in near marathon-style.        

Noting the unapologetic sprinkling of jewelry hands and other (funky/quirky) ornamental holders lounging aimlessly around the domicile, my thoughts began to wander.  This fleeting mental reprieve or lapsing work ethic (call it what you will) quickly had me thinking about relationships… particularly women and theirs.  I digress, realizing they’re happily created outside the bubble, because let’s be honest, many of us share a deeply evocative connection with accessories, our very special social armor.  Obviously, my endless throng of chains, spikes, and studs has achieved some sort of narcissistic greatness over the years or else I wouldn’t bother writing and rambling on about it.

But that’s just me… playing around inside the jewelry box.                                             

Always seems like such an incredible pause between posts, but what can I say in justification… life is demanding outside the blogosphere realm.

• At the publisher’s request, my all-hailed manuscript is currently traveling stateside, no doubt crammed amid a slush pile of other parcels and envelopes awaiting final destination.
• Present mood:  breezy.
• The pre-weekend itinerary entails finishing a newly started short story, albeit have every intention of serious rabblerousing come Saturday afternoon, which means post-weekend will require a much-needed state of REM.
• Current DIY inspiration:  Meadham Kirchhoff.
• As of late, my most employed (and quasi-obsessive) general Google search has been Chloé and Sam Edelman.
• After posting this, I plan to engage/entertain the Q&A for my upcoming feature, and subsequently knuckle down.

Meadham Kirchhoff 

Feeling a semi-disobedient surge of creativity, my inspirational musings seem a mid-month leftover from a wanton holiday wish list.  Obviously, one that doesn’t require specific public celebration… the inventory of insatiable fashion cravings, online shopping, and wishful (though sometimes near imaginary) cart filling, tends to increase year-round. 

And while never to disparage the mounting stockpile that was so selflessly deposited among the legions of others in my closet, I felt a sudden urge to collage these must-haves like there was no tomorrow. 

But let’s face it, this is what comes when a girl is left to her own devices… I suppose.  

 (Photo for betchai … see, I do have those shoes!) LOL

With that said, let me rewind in reference to my latter post (being parts one and two of my rambling Carrie Bradshaw brigade), and pose this simple question.  What have we learned from this Sex and the City savage style haven of fashion pornography? 

I have no f@%!king clue. 

Albeit relationships happen whether you’re prepared or not… the ups and downs, the side-winding curves, jilting somersaults, and I can’t believe you blackouts… no matter what designer you’ve managed to douse yourself in.  And a great pair of savage kicks always seems to fit, seeing as their fated holy grail-grandeur is the only practical solution to severe bouts of melancholy-ness.  I’m stretching it a bit, but who cares.    

Naturally, this hardly theoretical premise got me thinking.  They say life is what happens when your busy making other plans… but I’m wondering if life is what happens when you forget the damn agenda altogether.  Okay, for some the notional assumption of life is that the soul searching boulevard can and will better aid these wanderlusts moments if accompanied by a pair of Louboutins (when all you have are converse).  Albeit for others the mere mention springs a tearful reality to the hardcore truth, (there it is again) in that we all just need a Carrie Bradshaw breather.  Even if it is reduced to only 145 minutes of film…     

Because finding the perfect life, love, middle, beginning, or end to our realities/fairytales is like finding the perfect pair of ankle boots… sometimes, a girl has to try them on repeatedly until she finally gets it right.  Now that’s love at first sight.

All the things we’ve ever been told about love and life are in some cases, probably true.

Love is blind.

Love hurts.

Love holds no grievances.

Love and life sets without boundaries. 

Life is what we make it… and love generally happens when you least expect it, as much this is true about life, or so the disciples say.  Tough love, on the other hand, is an entirely different story, possibly. 

But when all these romance antics fall apart at the seams, when it’s not one thing… it’s six others, and your love life takes you from blissful to blasé… we being the clever women of the world, seek out truth, not merely versions of it.  For some ungodly reason, we’ve become desirous for that cold, hard, brutal honesty… well, most of the time anyway. 

And one begins to wonder…

What do the clever women of the world do in this paramount, mission provoking, and slightly unadulterated pursuit of love, sex, and practicality… we buy shoes.

If there’s one thing I know about relationships, it’s that they take time and several bumpy mistakes along the way.  And when they (the mysterious experts) tell you life’s coming up roses, sometimes a girl needs a garden to prove it… but it obviously doesn’t lend to the storefront of romance, flowers or not. 

(For the record, the outfit to your left is fantastic… just my style!!!)

These long distant, text messaging, e-mailing, and phone calling moments once deemed LDR’s are now commonly referred to as the romantically challenged. 

The love handicapped or dare I say, the erogenously disadvantaged. 

So, in my near Diet Pepsi/Popsicle combination-coma, I being a writer, found time in the saga that it is my life to aesthetically unwind, reboot my mental hard drive, nurture my wanton internet compulsions, and yes of course, to stop to smell the… designer bonanza better known as Sex and the City.

Someone commented the other day on the means in which taking breaks from our everyday lives (even for something as simple as coffee) actually encourages further inspiration… and I’m thinking I agree.  I call it outside-in perspective.I worked, as usual.Took a break, as usual. Spending the better part of the surly afternoon with loved ones, we casually roamed the city streets… mingling the sidewalks of familiar vintage boutiques.  But, I somehow, convinced myself that this spontaneous reprieve would produce something of the carefree.  Yes and no.  I’m not complaining about having the opportunity to take a break but I can’t splash around like some cyberspace confessional either.  Seriously, this isn’t Bridget Jones Diary! 

It was more the wishful thinking that once I returned to the grind, I would feel better… confident.