Oh Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy!

I went to the mailroom today to be greeted by a lovely pink slip. No, I'm not fired from college, I received a package!

"Lovely!" I exclaimed, jumping up and down, "I bet this is my Vogue."

So I went to the desk, still trembling with excitement, and presented my pink Golden Ticket to joy. However, what I received was not, in fact, my Vogue, which I've been dying to tear to pieces (that sexy, sexy rag) and plaster all over my wall. It was a small bubbly package from an unknown sender.

"This is not goddam Vogue! My good golly gosh, whatever can this be?" My first inkling was anthrax, but I decided to risk it.

Once I got back to a place with a pair of scissors (aka The Fashion Batcave), I opened it up.

Lo and behold! A book!

"Why are you bothering to tell me this?" you ask.

Because it's How to be a Budget Fashionista by THE Budget Fashionista (Kathryn Finney). A while back, she posted an offer on her site to send fellow bloggers a copy of her book in exchange for a review.

AND SHE AUTOGRAPHED IT! LIKE, WROTE MY NAME AND HERS! HERSELF! OH MY GOD!

I feel so honored that a famous blogger wrote my name, that of an obscure, upstart blogger. If my insane excitement isn't dorky, I don't know what is.

I already started reading it, and the first few pages are as witty as I had dreamed. Expect a fantastic review sometime in the nearish future.

Letters to Olga Sherer

bcbg max azria summer 2008

Dear Olga,
I wasn't aware of your recent death. My condolences to you, your friends, your family, your agency, and your agent. There is now "an icebox where my heart used to be" on your account, to quote Gym Class Heroes, who I really wish would just go away. I commend you, however, on still showing up and showing out at the BCBG Max Azria Summer 2008 show (love the dress you're wearing, might I add). Seriously, death becomes you, doll. The protruding sternum and ribs, the general malaze apparent in your expression, the limp hair. And I never knew embalming fluids are so good for the skin! You've opened up my eyes, Olga, darling. No more life-sustaining sandwiches for me, no, ma'am. And I shall get my humongous size 6 ass to the gym right away.

Love,
Vanessa xoxoxoxo

Workin' the Streets Chic

I use the word "chic" too often, but I digress.

via spiga (piperlime.com): $350

I feel like I should think these boots are whore-iffic (haha!). I generally get that impression at first from a lot of black, high-heeled boots. But I love the patent accents and buttons. I want these boots, but unfortunately girls who aren't catwalk skinny have a hard time finding awesome boots that will actually go up their calves. Whoever is in charge of enforcing the universal standard of skinny calves in the footwear world needs to meet an untimely end.

Oh, glamorous Via Spiga Classy Ho Boots, it's not your fault. I love you. Even if I can never have you. Maybe in another time, another place, we could have been. For now, I will simply admire you from afar until society will accept us as a couple.

Banana Republic and My Model Crush

I have nothing against Banana Republic, but I've never done much shopping there. Sometimes I actually remember I'm living in the real world of the average college student, which means I try to be relatively cheap when it comes to new clothes. Today, however, my boyfriend and I got back from lunch and decided we ought to try and find him new dress shirts and such. My philosophy being that it's a good idea to look at everything rather than just apparel in your price range, we turned to bananarepublic.com.

That's when I discovered one of the new loves of my life.

I have no idea who this model is, but I hope he knows in his heart that I love him more than many other things in this world.

You should look at the large version of this picture, because I couldn't copy that one, which is so much better. Is it kind've bad if I think they maybe dressed this dude a little like a lawn jockey?

I want him to have a music video. I think this is the part where the song gets all inspirational and he's an angel of some sort. Just add wings and we're good to go.

Seriously, how many guys can rock a Grandpa sweater?

Someday, when I'm a professional fashion addic-- I mean, columnist, I'm going to interview this man so he can share with the world the secrets to being the only fun, non-douchebag-looking male model for Banana Republic.

He's also the only black model on the entire site. Big surprise.

PSA

I think that everyone should be allowed to dress in a way that gives one personal satisfaction... within reason. I have a vendetta against Crocs. No one could look decent in Crocs. Johnny Depp would become only mildly attractive in Crocs. I'm angry at how Crocs have decided that they have the right to invade the realm of high heels and actual apparel, but that's not what I want to talk about.

I work at the restaurant of a yacht club. Classy, I know. I fetch your rolls with a fetching smile and the perfect amount of perk. "Thaaaanks!" I say, with way too many "a"s and cheer in response to a compliment. "Ya welcome," I reply to your grateful words (God help me, I'm such a Bostonian sometimes, but it's endearing). I'm probably the most adorable waitress there, or at least the one most enthusiastic about her job. I've only been waitressing for about 6 months, so I still harbor idealistic hopes for my future, unlike the haggard older waitresses who have realized that this is it. We actually have one woman who works there who is a talented singer, but her career never got off the ground.

Anyway, waitressing requires practical footwear. Not heels. You will slip and die. I wear an old pair of shoes I got for marching band, because they're good for not falling, which is an important aspect of my job. Some of the younger servers have decided that it is somehow okay to wear Crocs at work. They say they're "comfortable" and "practical" (Clinton and Stacy are dying a little inside as I type such words). They say that they're "non-slip." I'm not saying band shoes are attractive. Far from it. But they're practical without making me look brain-damaged. Our managers told us several months ago that Crocs are not allowed, as they're made of rubber, which is not impervious to sharp objects. They also have holes, which are not impervious to scalding liquids. They also have ugliness, which is not professional.

It's Thanksgiving, which means ever waiter and waitress in the place is running around frantically. Was table 54's dewars on the rocks or straight up? Did I give 67 their rolls? Good God, I have a reservation for table 48 in 5 minutes and the busboy hasn't set it yet!

The least of one's concerns should be how to stop their foot from bleeding profusely.

In a quiet moment, I am minding my own business in back when one of the Croc-roaches hops her way back there with me and sits down, followed by another waitress and our tiny manager, who tells her she'll go get the first aid kit. The girl's foot is bleeding. Apparently there was broken glass on the floor-- as there tends to be on very busy nights when people are dropping things and hurriedly cleaning them-- and it went right through her precious Croc and pierced her foot.

Am I a bad person for wanting to go up to her and say "Serves you right for wearing those hideous things that you've been told not to wear! Whore!" The "whore" would just be to drive the point home. You know, add insult to injury.

Am I a bad person if I sort've think of this as a Thanksgiving miracle?

The Moral of the Story: if you wear Crocs, you get what you deserve in the form of jagged, dirty glass creating a very uncomfortable puncture wound in the bottom of your foot.

Just in Time for Thanksgiving

Are you a Pilgrim impersonator? Want to add authenticity to your act? Boy, does Kenneth Cole have the shoe for you.


Have a dorktastic Turkey Day!

I'm Molting!

This reminds me of Saturday morning cartoon antics. You know, like when the The Road Runner or someone unzips themself only to reveal that they were not, in fact, wearing a costume.

Rock Your Fruiting Body

She's not really that dorky. We've hardly heard her say anything truly dorky and I am very disappointed in the direction this blog has taken.

Doubt thou Vanessa doth be a dork?

Let me just paint you a mental picture:

It's 8 PM on a Saturday. I am the only person left in the entire Biology building, sitting at an old, turqouise iMac doing parsimony analyses to produce phylogenetic trees for a project about fungal DNA.

"Billie Jean" by Michael Jackson comes on my mp3 player and I hop up for my stool and begin rocking out in what was-- in my head-- the best Michael Jackson impersonation ever. I am literally dancing around a Bio lab to 80s hits.

That's how I party hardcore, ya dig, son?

How to Put Some Giddy-Up in Your Step

chloe (net-a-porter.com) $750

Everytime I ever asked for a horse for Christmas, my mother always said "no." I can't imagine why, because riding to kindergarten on a stallion would've been pretty badass. I bet I would have had a lot of friends to use me for pony rides. Hell, as long as they would be willing to pay to rent my steed for birthday parties, it would be all good. But no. "A horse is too expensive," my mother would rationalize.

These shoes are a mere $750 dollars and are made with actual horseshoes. They may look like regular platforms at first, but in reality they are the pinnacle of equestrian chic. What could be more equestrian than pretty much being a human horse? Hyperbole? I think not.

Horses cost more than $750. They need to be fed. Shoes don't eat hay-- or anything else, for that mattter. Horses need stables. Shoes come with their own little home, no extra charge. Horses need to be cleaned up after. And, well, since shoes don't even eat-- well, you get the picture.

These shoes are for any other little girl who was denied her pony as a child. Now you can be a pony. Now you can live some twisted facsimile of your dream.

No thanks necessary.

Abercrombie & Fitch: Singlehandedly Destroying the Moral Fabric of America (as Well as My Hopes and Dreams)

abercrombie&fitch: $24.50

If only I agreed, Abercrombie Boy, we'd have a chance. If only I weren't holding out for my night in shining argyle.