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xx
take me out tonight, meow
I don’t know who Sam + Libby are (or is, if they’re just one of those brands with two names but are secretly just a one-designer brand), but… I love you.
Too fast, too soon?
I won’t apologize for my Aries tendencies. I don’t fall for anything — or anyone, for that matter — easily, but on that rare occasion that I do, I fall head over heels, hard. I’m also not very good at keeping my thoughts to myself. Speak before you think is the unintentional mantra here… But I digress.
For years now, I’ve been on the hunt for the perfect nude heel. The ideal would be those ubiquitous Christian Louboutin Pigalles or Biancas, but until this little student-writer (hi!) finds (a) a sugar daddy, or (b) has a sizable and reliable stream of income, Pigalles and Biancas will have to wait. In the meantime I’ve seen almost everything within a reasonable price range, but all were too pale, too blush, too yellow, too high, too stiletto-y (read: masochist), too platform-y (read: go-go girl), too round, too little toe cleavage… you get the point. When I wear heels, I better be able to run in them: trust, I am always the last girl on the dance floor and will never be caught barefoot, heels in hand.
Enter the Margot. The patent nude is just peachy enough that it complements my skin tone both tanned and pale, it’s quite perfect actually. And while I usually deter from anything with a massive platform or stiletto heel, the two together are the lovechild of the YSL Tributes I’ve always loved and something Lolita would wear. It’s quite sweet-gone-wrong; I adore kitsch here and there.
What sealed the deal was just how long they made my legs seem – an incredible feat in it of itself given my petite frame. Okay, so they’re comfortable (read: dance-able) too, but I’m mostly stuck on how leggy I look. That, loves, is the power of a good pair of heels.
(And no bank was broke — or robbed — in the process.)
. . .
Shop: Sam + Libby x Target Margot Pumps
xx
tearsheets
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back in the day
you don’t have to be pretty
“You don’t owe prettiness to anyone. Not to your boyfriend/spouse/partner, not to your co-workers, especially not to random men on the street. You don’t owe it to your mother, you don’t owe it to your children, you don’t owe it to civilization in general. Prettiness is not a rent you pay for occupying a space marked ‘female.’”
— Erin McKean, You Don’t Have to Be Pretty
. . .
xx
tearsheets
things i love…
Maxi dresses, for those hot – albeit a little rare this year – days when I’m feeling like a boho princess. Or perhaps I’m just too lazy to put on pants? You’ll never know. ❤ Late night texts ❤ Summer sun: the goal is to be the color of that perfect iced cappuccino ❤ Bachata ❤ Iced water spiked with lemon juice ❤ Catching up with old friends ❤ Leona Lewis, J. Cole, A$AP Rocky, Kid Cudi, Toby Love. Windows down, hair up — it’s too bad I’m stuck in the driver’s seat. ❤ Espresso-flavored frozen yogurt piled high with strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, itty-bitty mochi balls, and carob chips. Phew – what a mouthful (but actually). ❤ Better than a self-serve froyo bar? Having someone surprise you with the perfect cup with all your favorites. ❤ Being back in the Mario Badescu office! ❤ Jumpsuits — again, for the evenings when I can’t be bothered with fussing over the hemline of a little dress and hate to be bothered with the prospects of having to dress myself in two separate items of clothing. They’re so manrepelling, it’s awesome. (Editor’s note: The aforementioned theory has been disconfirmed, to the author’s disappointment.) ❤ Having a salsa professional volunteer to work with – and perform (gulp!) with me in the late summer. I feel so blessed. ❤ Gold earrings. Hoops, drops, jangly things — the bigger, the better. ❤ Waking up tangled between white, rumpled sheets.
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xx
