Manolo for the Big Girl

I don’t remember much about my first 24 hours in England, it was a precious few hours of consciousness between disembarking at the Canterbury East station and passing out stone drunk in a nunnery bunk bed at 11 in the morning (it’s a long story involving an embarrassingly small quantity of farmhouse cider, a homeless Welshman named Tom and the Dean of Canterbury Cathedral, who is a lovely man and has the softest hands of anyone I’ve ever met.)

What I DO remember was standing on a bridge and having my neck brushed by these feathery white star-shaped flowers and breathing in the heavily scented air in absolute and only slightly medicated delight.

Today’s cheap thrill is Belvoir Fruit Farms Elderflower Pressé. It is gorgeous, gorgeous stuff. Available at most World Markets for $4 for 750mL, it’s something along the lines of an Italian soda’s more delicate sister, with gently sparkling bubbles and a fragile floral sweetness that transports me straight to that Green and Pleasant Land. It’s completely natural, no high fructose nastiness or that sort of thing and the best part is there’s no passport –or Welshman– required.

Dear Universe,

I am a good person. I pay my taxes and vote responsibly and use those insufferably smug “This is Not a Plastic Bag” bags to haul my groceries about. I’m kind to animals (except the delicious sort) and I read stories to children every Saturday whether I’m hungover or not.  Once I even helped a no-foolin’  old lady (Roky Erickson’s mom, as it turned out, how cool is that?) to cross the street!

So please explain to me WHY these can’t be my size?! HATEFUL.

Hmph. See if I swerve to miss children NOW.

I love this dress. Love love lovety love. I ordered the navy and white  several weeks ago when it was almost $80 –still a steal– and when it arrived yesterday –after a few tense moments which involved me giving my potentially thieving neighbors the unqualified stink eye since the tracking said it was delivered on Monday– I spent a good part of the evening twirling around, inappropriately fondling the tissue-weight silk (don’t worry, it’s lined and much cuter than the picture) and cursing the heavens that I don’t own any pale tangerine shortie gloves.

It’s on super-sale, only $29.99 at Silhouettes Outlet. Be sure to click the Silhouettes ad on the right side of this page to get an extra coupon code.

I think we’ve established by now that I’m a good and virtuous woman (shut up) chock full of moral fortitude and a demeanor that is alternately described as beatific or cherubic, depending on how much I’m sweating. I am, according to all the bartenders and sales assistants I know, a treat and a delight and when it comes right down to it you would be hard-pressed to find someone more full of good and noble nature than I.

That being said, I would happily –nay, joyously– plow down a flock of nuns in my Cadillac (well, using my Cadillac, if they were in my Cadillac it would be much more difficult as blood is notoriously tricky to get out of ivory leather and green shag upholstery, or so I’ve heard) where was I? Right. I would plow down a flock of nuns using my Cadillac for one, JUST ONE, vial of the cruelly discontinued Sally Hansen kohl powder with magic applicator stick-thingy. Yes, I know Guerlain makes one and I’m sure it’s very lovely but it’s not the same. I want my Sally back.

For today’s big question I want to know:

What product did you love and, thanks to discontinuation, lose? If you find something do you stockpile and what are your feelings on buying makeup in the secondary market?

When I was a little girl I went around telling my friends –in naturally important tones– that in France they had fireworks on my birthday and alluded to the possibility that I was some sort of very important personage who might have been brought to live in America until one day I could regain my rightful place in French aristocracy.

Later I was disappointed to find out that it is far more likely that our beloved Frogophones are celebrating Bastille Day (which I SUPPOSE is MAYBE a little more important than my birthday) and NOT the hatching of a young woman who –if the Good Lord ever decides to provide her with a suitably ruinous divorce settlement– would do her best to singlehandedly support the French economy, one 90cm square of silk at a time.

Hmph.

To celebrate the first of what I’m sure will be many times I’m turning 29 I am going to wear head-to-toe French designers, eat as much chocolate mousse as I can decently shove down my gullet and then buy myself a new carré foulard because if I’m going to die old and alone with my dessicated ovaries rattling around in my abdomen like maracas, I’m damn well going to do it in Hermès.

One of my favorite things about being sans kiddos is that I can spend a considerable amount of my free time judging how other people raise their children and comparing them disfavorably to my own imagined children, who would not while away the blissful hours of youth by shoving crayons up their nose and trying to pee on the cat, but would spend their time in constructive efforts like moonshining and exacting vengeance on mine enemies.

An excellent judging opportunity presented itself just yesterday when an acquaintance with two daughters in elementary school –each the smallest in her class– complained how her girls hated to go to a Hooters-type establishment because the waitresses wore such skimpy costumes, the implication being the mother (of whom I am quite fond in other regards) dragged them along anyway.

It filled me with a good frothy head of rage, but I seemed to be the only one.  Aren’t there enough ways to mess with the self-image of young girls without having mothers hauling them to places where perkiness is a must, and I don’t mean in attitude?

So the big question is:

What do you think? For those of you who go to the breast n’ wings-style places,  would you take your daughters there? If you’ve never been, why not?

Before I commence to oohing and aahing over these scrummy yet work-appropriate heels, I would be remiss in my duties as The World’s Most Fashionable Anglican* if I failed to point out that –while inarguably fab– these “Advent” shoes from Jimmy Choo (currently 50% off!) are not the liturgically correct color (purple) for the season.

In light of this grave error, there are really only two possible solutions:

A) Jimmy Choo should, with great haste, send me a pair of these delicious creatures for free (and that includes tax and duty) in an effort to remove them from circulation.

OR

B) Convince myboyfriendTheArchbishopofCanterbury (sorry Style-Spy, I’m stealing that conceit) to force the entire Anglican Communion to eschew boring old purple for the weeks preceding Christmas and wear instead head-to-toe elaphe snake skin. Mmm, it’s serpently delicious!

*Results based on a small research study. Okay, really it was just me and some friends. And by friends I mean my dog. And some hand puppets.  And an apple I’d bitten to make a smiley face.  Don’t judge me.

So every time I see these shoes, and I see them a LOT, I always think “Man, I don’t own nearly enough Lacroix” and then I have to remind myself they’re NOT Christian Lacroix; they’re Christian Louboutin and THEN I spend the next few minutes putting on my best Edina Monsoon voice and saying “it’s Lacroix, darling. Lacroix.” and maybe singing a verse or two of The Pet Shop Boys’ “Absolutely Fabulous” thereby frightening my dog, who –still unused to my fits of discotheque madness– will promptly find something expensive and pee on it.

ANYHOODLE I love these shoes and at an extra 40% off at Neiman’s I love them even more. They strike me as very Spanish. I feel like I’d put them on and instantly find myself in an Almodovar film being held captive by a lovestruck and filthily hot Antonio Banderas.
Woo. Is it warm in here? Where’s my credit card? Who took my pants?

So I’m trying to get myself all het up over American Independence Day this year. It’s not quite working out, and I am concerned.

I’m not worried about my inability to muster the customary excitement over celebrating the birth of the nation that has brought us inventions that add so much to my daily life (Diet Coke, The Federalist Papers, The Colt Single Action Revolver with custom mother-of-pearl inlay and scrollwork.) No, I’m worried because it is The Matchiest Holiday and I am allergic to matchy. When I saw that Herr Karl chose “God Bless America” as the theme for Spring rtw at Chanel, I quivered in my extended-calf boots. The sign of bad things to come.

So what’s the deal? Why do so many people who wouldn’t dream of wearing leprechaun socks in March or heart-shaped dealybobbers on their heads for Valentine’s Day have no problem going all yankee doodle dumbass in giant foam hats to celebrate the birth of the our nation?

Am I an old crabbity crab? Do I hate America, Mom and Apple Pie? Do I kick children and puppies and put eyedrops in the Communion wine? Of course not!* But I want to know what YOU think.

This week Plumcake wants to know:

Do you think wearing red, white and blue on the Fourth of July is a fun way to get in the spirit or is it just cheesy and painfully literal? And for those of you who really want to get into the meaty stuff…Is wearing an American flag disrespectful?

*My lawyer told me to say that.

Remember last week when we were talking about aging into things? For me, Ferragamo is one of those brands that I’ll still have to age into. I was at the symphony a few weeks ago and somehow lucked into to the Founders’ Circle. It was nothing but a parade of fantastically aged matrons in their St. John suits and Ferragamo flats and it was fabulous. The flats are just a little too close to home in their WASPiness for me to wear them personally. It’s just a little too literal. I drive a luxury vehicle and can metabolize gin like a anamatronic sailor, I don’t need any more social signifiers, thanks.
THESE however, these are shoes you can wear until you’re dead. They are Not Cheap and I’m always hesitant on recommending fabric shoes because they’re just not at hearty as their leather counterparts but they are classic classic classic. The color is gorgeous, the cut is flattering on the foot and although the heel does tend towards the slender side, it’s “only” three inches so it’s not like you’ll be teetering around like a stilt-walker with an inner ear infection whenever you walk across the room.

Happy Weekend Everybody!