Charm School

No, this is not a post about a group of whores on VH1 who want to learn how not to be so whore-y. Let's talk about jewels, man!

Many of you know, and now all twelve of you will, that I love sentimental jewels. Anything with a monogram, a significant other's initials, a birthstone, I love. It stems from inheriting a lot (can I get a hell yes?) of jewels from some very chic grandmothers, much of which was collected, accrued over many years and engraved. Jemma Wynne is introducing a new line at Couture, COVET, and it's in the same vein as my obsessions. Pieces you want to collect, engrave, layer, hoard, and then pass down. And a few you may not want to. But, you'll be dead. So who cares.

Esse Quam Videri

The title of this post is Latin for 'To be, rather than to seem.' It is the state motto of my beloved North Carolina and and important sentiment to live by, in my very humble opinion. I am reminded of this sentiment every time I find classless thieves knocking off talented designers and representing a design as their own. I am reminded of this sentiment when I exist in the city of excess and indulge a little too much. Excess, while necessary, isn't all there is. Most importantly  I am most reminded of Esse Quam Videri , when the wheels hit the tarmac, landing in sweet Carolina. Luxury, excess, glamour, and New York City are only amazing when you have folks to remind you where you came from. 

Thank you, y'all know who you are.

All the sweetest winds they blow across the south 

Oh my sweet Carolina 

What compels me to go 

Oh my sweet disposition 

May you one day carry me home 

Living in Manhattan, acting D.U.M.B.O

In my family, we call the love/hate of our Manhattan lifestyles, ebbing and flowing. Like, 'are you ebbing or flowing today and do you currently want to kill yourself or go lay out in the park?' I think, unless you live here, you may think I'm a lunatic, but it's true. One day, you're on cloud nine, all, 'I LOVE MY LIFE AND MANHATTAN IS MY DREAM AND I'D DIE WITHOUT IT.' Cut to 4 minutes later and it's, 'IM GOING TO HURL MYSELF INTO 6th avenue TRAFFIC. TODAY'S THE DAY THIS CITY FUCKING KILLS ME.'

In an attempt to avoid my demise, both this weekend and last, I've escaped to D.U.M.B.O (Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass, as the locals do not, nor anyone else, like to call it) and quite enjoyed myself. You take the F train from the Upper East Side (barf) for approximately 47 hours and you get off at York Street. Upon your exit from the underground homeless bathroom/aids factory subway, head down Water St. and enjoy the food truck festival, Brooklyn Bridge Park, and a general state of being where you don't want to commit mass homicide. It looks a little something like this.

Really happy to be getting the 'F' (pun) outta Manhattan

Brooklyn Bridge Park, home to every engagement picture, ever. Except ours, because we're better than other couples.

Just enjoying eating my weight in food that is cooked in a truck

John enjoying his repulsive sandwich. There was 7 cows worth of brisket between 2 pieces of  cow juice soaked bread.

My brother, Sean (Oakley does not sponsor this blog. They damn well should though) and a lovely couple surveying the blanket/wind situation.

The hideous view from an apartment we looked at on Jay Street. Really, it's offensive.

Back in the city, but happy, because I have a gallon of vodka in that mason jar.

Until next weekend, D.U.M.B.O

I'm going to make a list of reasons I love living in Manhattan and report back soon. Sometimes, in any relationship (whether with a person, a city, a job, a friendship), you have to reignite the spark. I'm going to start courting NYC pretty hard. Here's to getting lucky, friends.

C'est Bazaar: From Russia, with Style

My favorite glossy up in this piece, ya know, America, is Hahhhh-pah's Bazaaaaa. I'll peruse le blogs as much as the next girl, I'm fucking writing one right now, but I may be the only douche left who waits for a man in a little blue outfit to bring the paper version to mah shitty ass apartment house.

Allow me to share with you my favey employee at Harper's Russia, stylist and editor, Natalia Alaverdian.

Dasvidantia, y'all.

Spoiler Alert: The Met Ball Sucked

 'There is something about fashion that makes people really nervous.'
Anna Wintour- not a punk

I was extremely nervous to see disservice done to the memory of the punk movement and, alas, my fears were warranted. In my effort to not jump on the bandwagon/shit storm of negative feedback, regarding THE Gala, I've managed to hurl myself onto said bandwagon with the most energy I've out into anything in a very long time. Including, but not limited to, writing that run-on sentence.

As with most things in life, the attendees who nailed it, fucking nailed it, while the remaining assholes guests (i'm looking at you Zooey Deschanel) looked liked idiots who got lost on the way to a) A Betsey Johnson/JC Penney collection launch party , b) Tommy Hilfiger's clambake, or c) a 'Pretty in Pink' cast reunion.

Below are my few winners of the night. You'll notice the absence of a 'worst dressed' list because I'm not glorifying those losers with a presence on my blog. Because, this is a really famous blog and, ya know, there is indeed such a thing as bad publicity. 

Right, Kim K.?

This was perfect. Wishing that her tartan clad appearance with Alexander McQueen would have been for this event. Everything.

 Not even super sure this dress is punk, but her hair is on point. Also, Tom Ford is her date, so everyone else can go.

Sienna looks amazing. Love the hair and the biker jacket, thanks to Chris Bailey for both of these looks. Also, she made out with Cara Delevigne that night, probably less due to 'punk' and more to 'drunk.' Just sayin' nobody would have cared if Zooey and her seersucker planted one on Kate Upton and that bridesmaid's dress she wore.

Until next time,

The Judgement Fairy