Covetworthy

I have been searching for a new (and not-so-humble) abode for nearly five years. Seems impossible but it’s all truth. This quest has taken me high into the hills of Hollywood, deep into the canyons of Santa Monica; estates in, like, gated communities, you know, like, in the Valley; beachfront bungalows along the Pacific coast.  Even as far as NYC, where I was whisked about in a black Lincoln town car, flitting between fabulous high rises, each with jaw-dropping views and five-star resort amenities. (Um, maid service, daily continental breakfasts, Friday night cocktail parties for residents all at no charge, anyone?)

But for the past 16 months, I have been pretty particular about one in particular. Then this week, after months of negotiations and culminations, walk-throughs and drivebys, buildups and letdowns, we decided to walk away. To be sure, this was not the expected turn of events, but even more surprising has been my reaction. I’m not disappointed. Not depressed. But actually, relieved. Yup, relief.

For so long, it was like trying to force a square peg in a round hole. All these problems, big and small, tripping up what should have been my joyous Jimmy Choo stride into the flyest house on the block.  And finally – FINALLY – I stopped. And that brings me to what just might be the most revelatory covetworthy idea yet. Covetworthy Tip #84: Don’t force it.

Incidentally, this truism is worth applying to many facets of a covetworthy girl’s life: be it shoes, relationships, high-waisted pants or the biggest financial decision you’ll make in your entire life. You know, when you’re working too hard to make it work? Yeah, don’t.

And as if I needed any more proof, there’s also this: since Monday, I’ve thrice been complimented by strangers on my makeup (when all I was wearing was moisturizer, Great Lash, eyeliner and Smashbox gloss.) Then two people stopped me in Beverly Hills and asked if they’ve seen me on television.

Coincidence? I think not.  Just goes to show that a clear head trumps clear skin anyday.

Since everyone and their waitress/porn star/white supremacist lover is claiming an addiction these days, I feel safe sharing mine. I’m a Dress Addict. No rehabilitation on the horizon. I just can not get enough. And though I loved that denim phase (as in, Cute Top + J Brands + Killer  Heels. Repeat.),  I am beyond thrilled about the latest fashion fixation to rebound around: Dresses, The Sequel. Yahoo.

But a dress, no matter how great, is just a dress if I merely put it on.  The real challenge – and all the fun – comes in completing the look. I believe that, if life is theater, dressing the part is only half the show. I’m about owning the outfit and the attitude. Which brings me to today’s tip.

Covetworthy Tip #543. A little roleplay never hurt a thing.

This year is barely one month old, and yet 2010 presents me with a question for the ages: exactly how much pain can I endure from a shoe?

Don’t answer in haste. You need to know the details first. This is not just a shoe. It is The Most Beautiful Shoe in the World.  It stretches my leg to amazonian heights. Adds some potent swish to my stride. This is SuperShoe – able to leap cryptic dress codes in a single bound. (“Festive Formal Chic”? “Creative Corporate Cool”? Foiled!)

How did I happen upon SuperShoe?  It happened two days ago when I came face to face with a familiar foe – the Macy’s designer shoe sale. (Shoe sales are my Kryptonite. I am utterly powerless in their midst.)  In one 45-minute frenzy, I tried on fourteen pairs of shoes. Calling on the fortitude of the ancestors, I settled on two.  Both impossibly high heels that make my calves go on for millennia. (Nevermind that one pair is a full size too small.)  These shoes can be reached from now on at the following address: Stacey’s Closet, Bad Ass Division, Cubby 1 and Cubby 2.

And suddenly as I was making my exit, she called out to me from her perch high atop a hidden rack. SuperShoe is lavender (my favorite) with black piping, satin finish with a tiny bow (so femme), a 5-inch heel. And a hefty FIFTY PERCENT OFF discount to boot. Boo-yah!

So what kind of pain are we talking about here? On a scale of 1 being pebble-in-your-sock-irritation and 10 as Chinese foot binding, it’s about a 4.5. But that’s just walking around the marshallowy carpet in the store. What happens when I take Baby Doll out in my hardwood, concrete and unevenly-paved ‘hood?  *Sigh*

But…she’s just so pretty.  There’s not another in my life like SuperShoe. She deserves a permanent home befitting the lifestyle for which she was so lovingly created. And Cubby 3 is vacant. What to do????

With my pre-baby body blissfully within reach, I am loving all these Mad Men getups. Body conscious dresses and high waisted skirts in wonderfully tactile fabrics. Professional in the front, splah-DOW from behind. It’s fabulous. But what’s really got my tweeds in a twitter is what’s underneath.

(more…)

It’s no new news that President Obama and the First Lady were named to Vanity Fair’s International Best Dressed List. So let me step out on a little limb here. Miss Michelle deserved it. Him? Eh.

Lest you add me to his growing list of haters, I assure that I am not. I’m an early supporter, financial and otherwise. I stumped for him. A “Yes We Can”-uttering, clever-campaign-tshirts-buying, Change-We-Can-Believe-In-cotton-totebag-carrying devotee. I find his brand of leadership as refreshing as mint lemonade. I just can’t say that I find him particularly *well-dressed.*

Exhibit A.
His standard navy suit + white shirt + patriotically hued neckwear + flag pin uniform.
Me: Yawn.

Exhibit B.
His vacation look.
Me: No words, just brows furrowed in concern.

You can fill that big silence there with me shaking my head. If I had magic powers for one day, erasing the above image of him in those belted joints would damn near be my first order of business. (Do I spy a crease?!? Lord, help us all.)

You see, what VF failed to pinpoint is what really landed him on that list. There’s no je ne sais quoi about it – I know exactly what it is. In a word, it’s his swagger. His confidence, his comfort in his own skin, his ability to be all that and encourage others to do the same.

But isn’t there more to it than that? What makes swagger so covetworthy is how it manages to be exceedingly prevalent, yet it’s a rare find. It’s like this: the hot handbag of the moment is out there for anyone to carry, but not just anyone can carry it off. For Mr. Obama, he seemed to summon up every positive and powerful attribute within himself at just the precise moment in history. And he made it look effortless. That is swagger. More importantly, that’s swagger that matters.

So…how should we define it? Does everyone have it but many know not how to tap it? Starting in October, I’m launching a month-long series on the topic of swagger. I want to explore the following:

Defining the undefinable – what it is, and what it’s not
The main players with swagger: who’s got it, who’s getting it, whose is swag-gone for good
Why it matters so much and when it matters most
Can it be faked, boosted, bettered?

Lastly, I strive to develop a list of the top people, places, products and concepts with it. A SWAGGER HALL OF FAME, if you will. Your input on this is encouraged, for this list will not be just for me, but for all of us to reference, to enjoy, and from which to seek inspiration.

Who’s with me?
SWK xxoo