mka

>>  September is my favorite month of the year -- not because all the young'uns go back to school, or because autumn is coming, but rather because the fashion magazines get fat.  Fat with ads and fall fashion reports, that is. The new fall ads are great for style ideas, but the fall fashion reports are a different story.  After a while, they tend to say the same basic thing -- it's like you're being force-fed the big overarching trends.  And it's funny, because in saying the same thing, they miss some of the smaller trends.  Like tights, for example. 

Black opaque tights have always been a staple item of mine, so I may be partially biased, but with Edie Sedgwick being a major influence on the runways for fall, I think they're a safe bet.  I especially like this Mary Kate Olsen-influenced look that is a bit punkish (right), because it balances out a dress that might be a bit stuffy otherwise.  And it so easy to do -- just drop by your nearest drug store, throw your new tights to the dog, and there you go, without even lifting a finger.  Seriously though, we've all ripped our tights without meaning to, so why not take advantage of the look while it's around and recycle those old things stuffed in the back of your sock drawer?

The more classic and sophisticated look of cable-knit or crochet-- probably the style I have seen most often in ads.  These tights are very versatile -- they are simple and subtle, but at the same time they definitely add some panache to an outfit.  In fact, I came across some Anna Sui brown cable knit tights (left) for $25 the other day -- probably the cheapest authentic designer deal I've ever come across.   

And then there's the gorgeous Swarovski crystal applique tights Zac Posen produced -- 99 pairs have been made, so it's not likely that I'll get my grubby little hands on some.  But one can still appreciate the beauty of these "Imperial Legs," selling at Bergdorf Goodman for $500 -- they really are a masterpiece in their own. 

And finally, for the fearless -- the opaque white hose look that has shown up on the runways of Comme des Garcons and Valentino Couture.  It reminds me of, I hate to say it, a nurse's uniform.  There's a fine line to be walked between sexy stilletoed nurse and frumpy podiatric-shod nurse, so clearly shoe choice is key.  But I would say as well that if you're feeling daring, try to stick to a monochrome outfit. 

**sources:  style.com, vogue.co.uk 

>>  So where were we?  Ah, yes, steak tartare...to be or not to be.  I was getting pretty serious with the whole raw beef delicacy idea (I like to be daring with my palate), when in swoops my boyfriend, fresh back from the hair molesting experience.  I ask him his opinion on the uncooked delight, and before the words are out of my mouth, he retorts: "What, do you want mad cow disease?"  I ponder this for a moment -- the thought never crossed my mind -- I don't want my brain to end up looking like a plate of steak tartare. So I take a second look at the menu -- I'm already mad cow enough as it is.  (Note:  Yes, I do realize the risk for mad cow disease is not taken away by cooking the beef, but just by my boyfriend mentioning it, it freaked me out a little). 

Now I love surprises, so one of my favorite things to do in a foreign country is pick the one thing off the menu that I have no idea what it is and order it.  My French menu-reading skills are pretty good, but I'm no gourmand, so I can't say the same about Italian dishes.  So it was settled -- I was ordering carpaccio, ready or not.  "Bon choix" (Good choice) said the waiter in response, so I figured I hadn't made too big of a mistake. 

To my surprise, however, carpaccio was not what I expected.  I can't say what I expected, since I really had no idea what I had ordered, but I can say that when a plate of thinly-sliced raw beef was placed in front of me, I was slightly confused.  All I know is that raw beef + me = meant to be that night.  I really should have just gone with the steak tartare, in retrospect, but the carpaccio was exquisite.  Leave it to those Europeans with a knack for cooking to make raw meat taste good.  In fact, if you asked me eat it again, I would. 

While I was digging in, our lovely waiter came to check on us.  There was a flourish of his hands, a stream of TGV-speed French that poured out of the waiter's mouth, leaving a puzzled look plastered on my face.  After a long pause of silence and dumbfounded looks, the waiter attempted the English: "I have dropped my fires in your sac."  Still frozen with what must have been an embarrassingly stupid look on my face, it took me a minute to realize that the waiter had just spoken English.  I cuted all over the waiter, not only for calling his matches "fires," and my purse a "sac" (the French word), but because it made me feel better about bumbling through French.  It was a lovely lovely reality check, and just what I needed -- because half the time when I'm speaking French, I know what to say, but I get so flustered I forget how to say it.  So it was nice to see the reciprocal in a Frenchie.       

**sources: carpaccio.nl

>>  'Twas the night we arrived in Paris, when all through the city, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.  It was almost frightening how deserted it was -- for a second there, I was ready to write off Paris for a ghost town.  My boyfriend and I were both ravenous after a day of travel, so we set off in search of a good French restaurant.  I know that's kind of stupid, seeing as there's really no such thing as a "bad" French restaurant -- French chefs do commit suicide if their meal is not presentable, after all.  But it turned out that the quest was harder than expected -- not because we couldn't find any good restaurants, but because they were all closed, rather (yay Parisian vacances!).  Finally, after two good hours of trekking around the Marais, an oasis sprang up amidst the desert -- this adorable little cafe hidden in the Place des Vosges (left).  And, even better, the cafe passed our two requirements: 1)  the menus being in French; and 2)  the customers were conversing in French.  Because, really, why would you go to France to order from a English menu and dine with English-speaking peoples? 

So, we're seated.  And by this time, my stomach felt like it was about ready to jump out of me and go find a meal on its own.  We are brought the menus, settle down at the thought of finally getting some good food, and then, I see it.  The fine print.  It always gets you.  "No credit cards." (Except in that lovely flowerly language that is French).  Oh gawd.  Us being tourists, we weren't carrying enough cash.  Why would we ever do something like that?  Really. 

I catch the waiter at his earliest convenience and bumble through asking him where the nearest ATM is.  Of course, I don't actually know the word for ATM, because why would they ever have taught me such a useful word in six years of high school/college French?  The waiter cocks his head at me like a dog does when it hears a weird noise.  And then there's the awkward silence.  Bumble bumble bumbling again, I finally get the point across.  My boyfriend goes running off, following my pieced-together directions, and I'm left to stare at my menu. 

Later, he tells me that in his rush to get the money so we can eat, he runs into a fellow patron's head with his arm.  And brilliantly, instead of saying "Pardon" or "Excusez-moi" like I told him too, he says "Oh, Merci."  Thank you ever so much for running your head into my arm -- how kind.  I don't think I'm ever going to let him live that one down.

And what's worse -- this is just the beginning of the night's misunderstandings -- at the ATM, there was a "normal-looking" woman waiting behind him in line.  She tells him:  "J'aime tes cheveux." (I love your hair.)  He understood, miraculously, but his French vocabulary consists of two words: oui and merci.  He picks the most appropriate: "Oui."  She speaks again, but this time, he only understands one word out the whole phrase: "toucher" (to touch).  His response again (he's so well-versed): "Oui."  Before he knows it, the woman is rubbing her hands all through his hair.  Startled, he runs away, but not before a polite: "Merci."

Meanwhile, back at the cafe, I am musing over the menu and drooling.  Soupe a l'oignon...gazpacho...steak frites...and their recommended special:  Steak tartare (right).  Yes, that's gourmet speak for raw beef.  That you eat.  And it's a delicacy.  To be or not to be?  You'll just have to wait and see...  A bientot!   

**sources: pmmh.espci.fr, luxuryweb.com

>>  Okay, so this has got to be the quote of the century.  Or at least of the decade:

Singing sensation Jessica Simpson has denied she is suffering from anorexia nervosa and insists people from Texas don't get eating disorders.

The 25-year-old credits her strict Southern upbringing with giving her a love of food and is convinced her love for herself will never outshine her love of eating.

She says, "I'm not anorexic. I'm from Texas.  Are there people from Texas who are anorexic? I've never heard of one and that includes me."

Speaking of anorexia, MSNBC is reporting that Mary Kate Olsen is in talks to become the new face of Calvin Klein.  That's right, the same company who launched the hugely successful career of Kate Moss.  I'm not sure how I feel about this, but just wanted to throw that out there.

**sources:  monstersandcritics.com

>>  "...Daddy's home!"  Yes, those were the first words to hit my ears after stepping off the plane.  And no, they weren't from my boyfriend's mouth (or we wouldn't still be dating), but rather from that of a rotund, bald-pated, middle-aged man who promptly waddled towards the aforementioned donut shop.  What a grand welcome home to the good ol' U.S. of A. 

Paris was, hmm... "interesting," shall we say.  Don't get me wrong, I love the City of Lights, but it's just not as I remembered it.  It could be because everyone and their little dog too (Parisians love their little dogs) were en vacances (on vacation, en anglais).  Goofball that I am, I forgot that August is the time when everyone floods out of Paris and takes their 4-5 weeks of holiday elsewhere.  Needless to say, the streets were a un peu deserted, the shops were un peu closed, and I was un peu frustrated. 

Take this, for example.  There I was, walking along the Rue de Rivoli towards the Centre Pompidou, and I came across this amazing shoe store.  Like seriously, the kind of shoe store you would find only in Paree.  Take a look and see for yourself -- now that is the kind of shoe store you would want to go into, non?  Those Victorian-style boots were reeling me in, for sure, for sure.  But of course, the shop was closed -- Paris in August is a real coquette -- it has that "you want but you can't have" ideal about it. 

So, although I wasn't able to get much quality shopping done, and there weren't many sophisticated Parisiennes running around for me to photo-stalk (sorry to disappoint), I did promise you stories.  And believe you me, Paris still had its moments.  But for right now, you'll just have to wait.  That's right, I'm leaving you with a cliff-hanger.  And a picture of a really cute A.P.C. necklace, because it is French, after all (as well as another one of those things I want, but just can't have).  Oh, and one more thing:  take it from me -- if you choose to visit Paris, don't do it in August.  It just doesn't do the place justice.      

>> Goodbye, London.  It's been lovely.  But.  Helllloooooo Gay Paree.  I'll be gone for a good 4 or 5 days, but I have full faith that I will have plenty to share by the time I leave Paris.  So don't fret.  Too too much.

>> I was reading my online newspaper and sipping my orange juice this morning, when I came across a couple of snippets I just had to share --  they made me laugh and shake my head in absolute disbelief:

The Sun reports today that Kate Moss has rekindled her relationship with Pete Doherty after he set fire to his bed last weekend in a bid to show her how much he loves her. "It's been a tough few weeks for Pete," said a friend. "He split with Kate, sacked his manager and got arrested for fighting a reporter. Things came to a head at the weekend. He was so frustrated he smashed up a guitar and set fire to his bed. Kate got to hear about it and let him come and stay. She still thinks she can sort out Pete and all his problems."

Really, Kate.  I love you -- you're beautiful and a superhuman dresser, but do you have to be swayed by a man who proclaims his love by...setting his bed on fire?  I know it's romantic, but ya gotta try and resist these things every once and a while.  I have to say, I'm a little disappointed in your judgement right now. 

In other news:

Jessica Simpson, who wears only the skimpiest of denim garments in The Dukes of Hazzard, has rolled out a retail line of jeans for plus-size women.
The $59 slacks, available at Avenue stores, fit sizes 12-24, reports USA Today.
"We have people 300 lbs. or 90 lbs. come up to Jessica and say, 'I'm just like you,'" Jessica's father and manager, Joe Simpson, tells the paper, adding: "It's not about the outside. It's what's inside."

Now this concerns me for a couple of reasons.  First, why do we keep allowing a girl who coordinates hoodies, baggy cutoff shorts and platform heels to roll out the clothing lines?  Second, why is it that people want to be "just like" her?  I for one have enough time coping with one of them, but now there's clones?  Jesus.  And finally, who knew Joe Simpson could whip out such profound wisdom?  I've never heard anything like it before.

**sources: vogue dailies, people

>> I'm home!  My most gracious and humble apologies to you all, I just had to whisk myself around the land where the sun never sets -- the grand old UK.  But here I am, I've popped up again, back in London.  And oh boy, do we have a lot to catch up on.

But first, this.  I came upon this site a long time ago, but it was down at the time.  Intrigued by the cool graphic logo, I bookmarked it anyway.  I remembered about it a couple of weeks ago, and it was like finding twenty dollars in a jacket pocket -- the site was back up, and just as I suspected, had something adorable for sale.   

Rippednylons.com -- even the name is alluring.  But the best part about it is what's inside.  The lollipop pins.  These cuties are all handmade with vintage fabric, beads, sequins, and lace.  I usually hate lace (and love sequins, beads, and vintage), but this might have won me over.  And the stitching -- it's all just so divine.  And my favorite (my golden rule of deciding): it looks like nothing else.  How could it?  They're all one of a kind.  Some people tie a scarf on their bag to give it a personal touch, but me, I would put add a lollipop pin.  It's like in Office Space -- everyone needs a little bit of flair -- these would be mine (Of course, never would I fulfill the 37 pieces of flair minimum -- one is good enough for me).  My flair of choice would have to be the Sundae Dainty Lollipop Pin -- I'm such a sucker for anything blue -- $18 of deliciousness.

It's interesting, I've never been big on accessories.  But suddenly, I've become intrigued -- God is in the details, as they say.  It's that little touch of panache that makes an outfit your own, and I can feel my style evolving.  Which also explains why I'm so attracted to these pins -- they definitely have the spice it takes.   

>>  I was wondering around Oxford (UK) one day and came across this somewhat run-down-looking shop.  It had a little bit of graffiti here, a little bit of cracked wood there...  But the thing that really caught my attention was its window.  "What a great place to play dress up," quoth I (I am a 5-year-old at heart).  "And look at those purses in the window."  Instantly intrigued by this rarity of a shop, I tried the door.  No luck, it's 1:30 pm, and all is not well -- why is this Unicorn shop not open?  We walked next door to the sandwich shop I call Herpes (actually Heroes, someone just tampered with the sign), and asked whether the shop was still open.  "Why yes," quoth she.  "The woman just opens it whenever she feels like."

I must have checked back 4 or 5 times before the elusive Unicorn was finally open.  That fateful day was a rainy day, and 3 guys were standing outside with umbrellas while their girlfriends packed themselves into the tiny open space, crawling over each other to get to the goods.  It's not that the shop was small, it's that there were so many piles of clothing everywhere.  Piles as tall as I am.  It was amazing, it was like digging for gold -- you never know what you're going to pull up.  And you couldn't even get to the back half of the store, because there was this huge wall of clothing cutting you off from it.  The little gray-haired woman who ran the store kind of reminded me of Miss Havisham, sans the rotting wedding dress.  She had that musty smell about her, and it permeated the entire shop, as if she hadn't left the place in ages, and just sat in there at night, watching over her collection in a place that never sees light (when I went in, the store was dark -- there were no lights).  She had kind of a creepy yellowed-teeth smile, and her hair looked like the cotton batting you would stuff your teddy bear with.  She just climbed all over her clothes to get where she needed with Smeagol-like dexterity, and she had that same mischievious twinkle in her eye. 

Maybe it's because she knew she was cheated me out of some good money.  Yes, that's right, I found a couple of wonderful pieces.  The first being a Victorian-inspired velvet jacket (love velvet jackets) with shoulder pads (so '80s, I know, but it actually looks quite regal with the jacket's cut).  It has satin ribbon lining, which gives it this high-collared look at the neck.  Gorgeous, and perfect for the fall, with the velvet and the Victorian both being all over the runway.  Miss Havisham (the Unicorn woman) told me that it was designed by Laura Phillips, a well-respected seamstress in England.  I was skeptic, as I should have been -- I came home later and googled it, and nothing came up.  But that was supposed to explain why the jacket was ₤29 -- it was a "coveted piece."  Uh huh.  But I justified it to myself -- never in the States have a found such a great vintage store.  Plus, I loved the jacket, and when was the next time this store was going to be open, anyway? 

Same for the second piece --  it's this great paisley '70s bohemian-looking shrug.  I saw it and thought,  "I'll never ever come across a piece like that again."  It was a basilisk, that shrug -- it froze me in my steps -- that's how taken I was.  Plus, I like the kimono-inspired bell sleeves.  So again, Miss Havisham had me -- this time for a mere ₤24.  Ah well, such is life.  These are the best kind of souvenirs anyway -- the ones that actually mean something to me personally.  They're better than a plastic Union Jack flag or a cheap Eiffel Tower replica any day.  As much as I feel like Miss Havisham takes advantage of me, I do hope to visit her again at least once before I leave.  But we'll have to see what happens -- I kind of feel like that store is the Atlantis of vintage.

P.S.  I'll be away for a bit starting today, so you won't hear from me for a while.  But hopefully I'll have some good stories when I get back.

>>  What three things do I want in life (or now, rather)?  No silly, not peace, love, and happiness.  Try again.  You're stumped?  Okay fine.  I'll give it to you, but just this once. 

1. The Pants

I saw this style of pants running around all over Barcelona, and fell deeply, passionately in love.  The example picture is from McQueen's Spring 2003 collection, but only because I couldn't get a picture of the ones I saw.  They look exactly the same.  I know the people I saw wearing them can't all afford vintage McQueen, however, so I want to know... where can you get these pants?  Anyone, anyone?  I want, but I can't have, because I don't know where to get.  And that makes it all the worse.  They just look so comfy, and at the same time, I think of a Japanese influence.  Which makes it all the cooler.  Now if only I could find them, I would be able to die a happy woman. 

2.  The Shirt

I was looking through a great Japanese Street Style site that I came across, and I found a girl from Harajuku (don't worry, I'm no Gwen Stefani) wearing this lovely lovely Comme des Garcons Play shirt.  Again, can't find it anywhere -- it came out a couple of years ago.  I think I like it so much because it reminds me of a drawing I did as a kid -- it had little heart people with eyes on them that looked just like that.  And to think, if only my parents had had the common sense to put that drawing on a shirt, I might've been a famous at age 5.  I'm dreaming, I know, but the point is, the shirt is personal to me.  But I'm still so jealous of that girl.  She has my shirt.

3. The Waistcoat

Also known as "vest" in the U.S., but I figure since I'm in England, I can take up their terms.  Especially when I'm going to mention Miss Kate Moss, the lovely.  Who has been spotted at the Glastonbury Festival (and around town) recently wearing this waistcoat.  I'm not sure that I would wear mine like she does, but I definitely think this would be a good piece to support the quasi- adrogynous clothing phase I'm going through right now.  Plus, just look at her.  There's nothing manly about the piece when she wears it.  In fact, I would dare to say sensual.  (I know, Kate Moss is the embodiment of sensual, but what can I say.)  I found a pretty cute one at Urban Outfitters for $78, but I would prefer to find a cool vintage one in London.  So we'll see what I can turn up.

**sources: TIME, getty images