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.

Related posts:

1. The Underwear Overhaul Project, Volume I
2. I Dress, Therefore I Channel My Covetworthy Style Icons
3. Swagger Defined

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.

Related posts:

1. Grateful for Rachel
2. Clearly Covetworthy
3. A question for the ages…

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????

Related posts:

1. I Dress, Therefore I Channel My Covetworthy Style Icons
2. What can we do?
3. Clearly Covetworthy

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.

I love me some Spanx – believe that – I reach for them on the regular. But I am on this underwear overhaul so I’ve got a few quarrels with them. For one, I’m underwhelmed with the beige-black-blah color offerings. And any attempts to look Elizabeth-Taylor-“Cat-on-a-Hot-Tin-Roof” evaporate upon sight of myself encased in that bandage bondage. Poof!

Enter Sliminizers. A friend turned me onto this collection of shapewear. LOVE this. I pulled some pieces for a makeover segment and have been rocking them ever since.

Most importantly about Sliminizers, they do their job and they do it discreetly. (Not a combination you find often in this life.) I slid them on and was instantly slimmed and smoothed, not stuffed and suffocated. The fabric is lightweight, buttery soft and the pieces stayed put. No inching north to my rib cage (thereby creating a bulge over the one I’m trying to hide in the first freaking place. WTF?!?)

But the line’s true genius is its fantastic color selection: TEN beautiful colors, ranging from Majorca Buff to Espress Brown, that really do mimic and flatter your skin tone. Imagine that: you can be in the nude even when you’re not in the nude. Gives all new meaning to made in the shade, now doesn’t it?

Check them out at www.sliminizer.com. Prices start at $14.

Related posts:

1. Grateful for Rachel

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

Related posts:

1. Swagger Defined
2. What I know…
3. The Underwear Overhaul Project, Volume I

See, I have this ritual. I stack all the magazines in order of reverse relevance. The top of this pile is the least of the bunch, the non-essentials, the take ‘ems or leave ‘ems. Kind of like the step-cousins you get seated next to at weddings. They offer mild amusement at best, but no substance. Once seen, quickly forgotten, never again referenced. Sorry, People Style Watch, that means YOU. (And, ummm, how did you get my address in the first place?)

Next up are the Fluffy but Fabulous mags, like a gaggle of giggly cousins that are always available for a good laugh and a good dish. Lucky, you make me nostalgic for when I spent Saturdays flitting from shop to shop and every nail hut, bookstore and Tasti D-Lite in between. Ah, InStyle, the hours I spent pilfering those sticky tabs from Lucky to adorn your pages. And, W, all rich bitch and insidery, bragging about your polo matches and Hamptons weekends. What-evah. I still love you, even though you try just a little too hard to make me like you.

Then the ubercool Big Sisters, the ones that serve up you-need-to-know-this journalism with you-know-you-want-this photo spreads. Essence. Vanity Fair. And I’m forgetting one… Oh, O.

And at long last, after I’ve devoured and tabbed and dog-eared and discarded, I have finally, blissfully, reached the bottom of the heap, which is actually the creme de la creme. Vogue, the well-meaning (and original Mean Girl) grand dame who sits so high and deigns to look so low. She doles out her advice, her suggestions, her proclamations, and yes, her withering disapproval. My loyalty to Vogue is rooted in tradition: I kiss La Dona’s ring because I always have. Sitting at her side are Elle and Harper’s BAZAAR, the benevolent favorite aunties to whom I am wholly besotted. They take Mama Vogue’s hardness and soften her edges, dispensing trade secrets with nods and winks, tongues firmly planted in cheeks; all the while, expecting, encouraging me even, to use my inner compass and direct my own style path.

I know this post probably bores the patterned leggings off some of you, and I’m fine with that. I’m too engrossed with the family to notice.

Related posts:

1. Clearly Covetworthy

It’s not about the price of the dress. When you amortize (yes, children, that does say amortize) the cost over number of wears, that’s when you get the real value. And while I’ve used this formula many times to justify purchases in a price range way north of reasonable, it is with particular joy that I can do so with an item that needs no such vindication.

I have happily happened upon the Rachel Rachel Roy collection. I Besot You. Really.

Well done, Miss Roy, well done.

Let me describe what I love about the line: I’m thinking of every little cute dress / funky top / distressed pair of jeans / boyfriend blazer / jumpsuit / studded piece / younameit I’m feeling this fall.  Now I’m thinking of it available in sizes beyond 0, 2, 4. Now I’m thinking of it for less than HALF what I imagined. And finally I’m thinking, where the hell’s my Visa?

I find a new favorite every time I look at the site – and since most of the pieces aren’t available for another month, looking’s all I can do for now. Come October and the falling leaves, I want to ROCK this Transfourmer Coat in all four of its glorious manifestations – long coat, cropped jacket, cropped vest, long vest. And there’s a cross front LBD that also does double duty. I envision myself swathed in it by day with gladiators and aviators, by night with studs and Sergio Rossis.

See for yourself by clicking here, or by visiting Macys.com.

Related posts:

1. I Dress, Therefore I Channel My Covetworthy Style Icons
2. A question for the ages…

I had a fantastic dinner a while back that ended with the host showing us his latest purchase: a Ferrari. I’m no car girl but I had to admit it was breathtaking. (And what I do know is Husband looked at, and subsequently rubbed on, said vehicle in a way that made me avert my eyes.) A girlfriend there asked, so what’s the equivalent of a dream car for us? The dream closet. I readily agree.

Think about the parallels. The currency of the dream closet is not horsepower, but square footage. No need for speed here–I want space, preferably something with double zeros at the end. Oh, and I’ll take climate control over cruise control any day.

To me, the real value in the dream car or closet is being able to live out the Fantasy. It’s what offered behind the wheel, behind the door, albeit briefly. In my dream closet, all my once and future purchases reside, those items to adorn me while I fulfill every dream I ever had for myself. That book I’ve yet to write? Still a loose outline, but here’s the D&G skinny suit I’m wearing to the launch party. And while I patiently await that CFDA Awards invitation, I already chose my Choos.

I’ve been in this mode for a long time. Before “The Secret.” Before manifesting anything, I have been a firm believer in “in order to be it, you gotta see it.” So much of that Fantasy life is rooted in my Realife, just with more fantastical settings and ripped-from-the-headlines personalities mingling alongside my Real friends. Example? A quick grab-and-dash at Quizno’s becomes brunch with the girls at Cipriani’s, and by girlfriends, I mean my college bfs plus Diane von Furstenberg, Ms. O and Mrs. O.

Simply put, the dream closet serves a vital purpose in my life. It begets more dreams. I am limitless there. I’m never someone else, I’m always me, just more sure-footed and secure in all those fabulous threads. And sometimes, just sometimes, those outfits step out of my imagination and inspire ensembles that make appearances in my reality. And I’m the only one who knows they first started as a dream.

Surely, I’m not the only girl living the dream. Have you ever made the dream attire a reality? Share your story here. Names and identifying details will be altered to protect the innocent (most likely from 1980s fashion crimes…)

Related posts:

1. A question for the ages…
2. Grateful for Rachel

Admittedly, this isn’t something that’s important to most. Some people live by a mission statement. Or it might be crucial to make a final statement. For me, it’s all about the Understatement. (And right about now, mine is the sound of crickets chirping in overgrown fields.)

I never thought this would happen. But two babies in two years can wreak serious havoc on a girl’s mojo, ya know? So now, bottoms bounce around with no tops. Once-doted-upon lace frillies (pre-bump) nestle next to well-worn Hanky Pankys (mid-bump.) Spanx sidle up to Agent Provocateur. We recently had a weekend away from the kids and, whereas I used to plan my vacation boudoir ensembles in advance, this time I just stashed a couple fresh pairs in the bag and prayed that this would be a lights-off situation. Pathetic.

What I know is that keeping a tight lingerie wardrobe requires maintenance. (Just like missing a few days at the gym won’t hurt, but skip a year and see what happens to your ass. No, seriously, go to a mirror and look at your ass.)

So I’m airing the proverbial dirty drawers to make this promise: I am heretofore undergoing an aggressive underwear overhaul.

1. I PLEDGE to purge – anything that doesn’t inspire has got to go.
2. I PLEDGE to buy things that match. Seems redundant but some things just must be said. (And THAT goes without saying.)
3. I PLEDGE not to make purchases from catalogs – that’s cheating. I will summon up the ovarios to walk into a lingerie department or boutique, and engage the services of a sales chick to fetch what I need, regardless if she’s enviably fit or heartbreakingly geriatric.

And finally…,
4. I PLEDGE to wear everything that I buy. No saving and no second-guessing.

Stay tuned for the updates, uploads and the uplifting…

Related posts:

1. Closeted…

So with just four precious weeks left, I’m determined to eek out every last drip of the season’s bliss, and that’s got me all nostalgic on how I found joy in the simplicities of summers gone by:

Bare feet squishing through damp grass.

Sandals. Halters. Short shorts. Repeat.

Running, with no thought of cardio, body parts, empty calories from the night before or how many minutes before moving on to the elliptical. Just running because that’s how you get to Point B.

The breathless, giggly exhilaration upon arriving at Point B.

Enduring the pain and boredom of getting your hair braided, but giddy at the sight of the finished product, all tricked out with fly beads.

Learning (albeit, the hard way) how not to lose an eye while turning your head with the suddenly deadly new ‘do.

Jellies sandals. $5. No brand name required.

That perfect age: too old for dolls, too young for lip gloss. When it was all about hanging with your girls, jumping rope, riding on the handlebars and Miss Mary Mack all dressed in black.

Strawberry popsicles, the ORIGINAL lip stain. (Suck it, MAC.)

The days when stepping over cracks, not splitting poles and kissing dropped food up to the sky offered all the protection you would ever need.

Hours stretching on for days, weeks as long as months and a Labor Day that was practically in the next millennium.

Oh, summmmmmmer. 2 sweet + 2 last = 4 ever. Let’s make a pact to make the most of what’s left of it!

(What have I missed? Please share some of your summer simplicities with me…)

Related posts:

1. The iCovet Manifesto (or why this blog exists)