Dec 6, 2011
the secret behind my applicators.
clinique, powder + blush brush
the brush collection. finely crafted for expert control. unique antibacterial technology. plus they tickle. enough said? ok.
Dec 5, 2011
the secret behind my claws.
opi, jade is the new black
green- the colour of envy and money- could be a repeat offender of the holiday season. with a season full of military inspiration, this forest-found hue has emerged, decadently darker than summers mint predecessors.
sharpen your knives and get those claws out- going green never looked so good.
Dec 3, 2011
the secret behind my jeweley.
sarah coventry, mr seagull
often perceived as a terrain riddled with abstruse references that are too intimidating to broach (no pun intended)- the vintage jewelry market, for many, is an unfamiliar territory. but with the current economic climate in its present state, the recessionistas are looking to get a little more bling for the buck.
an untold story is the paperbag princess actually found a diamond in a haystack- they say one man's trash is another man's treasure, and vintage jewelry is no exception.
Dec 2, 2011
the secret behind my pout.
lipstick is proving itself as an all-time heavyweight in cosmetic come-backs, which not many passé beauty trends can claim. it is the exception- the britney spears of war paint, if you will. it is blatently back, and it's not going anywhere for a while.
enter the sheens. charlie excluded- we have zero time for washed up pornstars, as they've gone the way of skinny eyebrows. it's the bigger sister to the shiny, the sticky and velcro-to-your-hair-on-a-windy-day-that-was-hogging-the-spotlight-since-the-90's lipgloss. a little bit of moisture, a little bit of colour- a real hybrid.
pucker up and put one of these bullets on your list.
*Disclaimer: YES Canadians do spell colour with a U
Dec 1, 2011
Nov 10, 2011
if that doesn't get you in the mood for the long weekend, i don't know what will.
wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle yeah!
Nov 4, 2011
it's been brought to my attention that everyone in life (don't even try to not agree) has warmed up to the idea of babes in bikinis. now listen up, take a sip of Sunny D and wipe the drool off your cheek- i mean business.
waves. beach. sun. sand. sounds to me like surfers paradise- or my equivalent of lemon flavoured Sour Patch Kids- amazing. but- whilst you get lost in california dreamin', i should remind you that before you decide to take one of these babes out for a little spin on the d.floor, looking hot in a bikini doesn't exactly command a lot of respect in the rough-and-tumble, dog-eat-dog, who-took-my-sandwich "real world".
no, this is just not enough. we need more than that. we're just going to show you how it's done, and look good doing it. it's called multitasking in the power-bitch world; so ladies, this one's for you.
Oct 25, 2011
"When we say “You smell good,” here’s what we mean:
You make me think of fireflies and precisely five tiny beads of sweat on her Coppertoned neck, which was mine one weekend long ago. You make me taste buttered popcorn and Junior Mints and feel the scuffed movie theater seat on my bare calves, and you inspire visions of barbecued hamburgers and pudgy strawberries, purple soap and faded blue sheets.
We mean you smell pure and sweet.
When we say, poleaxed, “What’s that perfume? I really like it,” here’s what we mean: Stealing a kiss in a cab, drinking a Manhattan, which I have never drank before, in Manhattan, where I have never been before tonight. A marbled lobby, a cavernous club, shivering at her hot breath on my cheek when she whispers something about literature on the dance floor, and then another cab, another kiss, freely given, stumbling up narrow, steep stairs in what people of this loud, pushy, wondrous city where I have been one night and want to live out my days call a “walk-up,” which sounds as exotic to my midwestern ears as “prewar” or “schmear.” Her hand on the back of my head, my hand exploring the small of her back, us leaning against a wall in the entryway, fumbling with keys, whispering. Closing my eyes, wondering why people here say “on line” instead of “in line,” feeling drunk, being drunk, having found my future wife, wanting to breathe her in forever.
We mean you smell sophisticated, and a little dangerous, like you know things we don’t but want to.
When we lean toward you and close our eyes and inhale deeply, and it looks like we’re happy for no apparent good reason, here’s what we mean: The crickets are making a racket outside the open windows, and we are rising and falling, rising and falling (it’s the ’80s and it’s a water bed; don’t judge) and James Taylor is singing “Sweet Baby James” and the record skips in the places I know by heart. There, a hiccup between “moonlight” and “ladies” and I swear I can see the sound waves in the clouds of marijuana smoke, and Huxley, her aged German shepherd, is twitching by the door. There’s a sweet, yeasty stench of beer and bacon and fried cheese and onions from the sub shop where she works, and there is her shiny black hair, all the way down her back, and the deep, delighted voice of St. Louis Cardinals announcer Jack Buck coming from the tinny transistor radio in the window next door, as he bids “Adios!” when slugger Jack Clark clubs yet another tiny ball and it spins into the thick, black Missouri night.
We mean you smell like musky abandon, like surrender.
When we’re shopping for a sweater at a mall or watching our nephew run at a middle school track meet and in the middle of a crowd, we suddenly stop, dazed, here’s what we mean: I’m 15 and she’s the nice lady who works in the candy store in town where counselors in training go on days off and she gives me free Cherry Cokes. She invites me to water-ski with her at her cabin by the lake next week, and next week comes and there’s a drumming thunderstorm on the roof and when she drives me back to camp she tastes like grape, because it’s the flavor of the lipstick she applies before she gives me the first kiss of what seems to me at the time to be my undeserving but abundantly blessed life.
We mean you smell like a vanilla milk shake.
When you are asking what looks good on the menu and we slump, and we’re staring at something that’s not there? Here’s what that means: Gigantic, impossible blobs of color, purple and yellow, red and green, splotching and dripping and filling up the starry sky. Fresh-cut grass and the scent of gasoline from the pump behind the camp kitchen. Sweaty palms—mine and hers, the summer camp director’s daughter—and we kiss, not knowing that 17-year-olds looking up at the aurora borealis should keep looking, should hold tight to the vision, because we’ll never see it again. She wants to be a lawyer and we talk about raising children and she smells like hot milk cake and I imagine all the summers of my life unspooling in the sky, in northern Wisconsin, in the tall grass up the gentle hill from deep, green Towanda Lake, until the assistant camp director strides out to the athletic field and smacks his clipboard against his thigh and yells at us both to get back to our cabins; do we want him to get fired?
We mean you smell like the summer sky—and hot milk cake.
F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote, “No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.” I submit that he had the wrong organ. Looks matter. What you say is important. Actions count most, at least to any reasonable man. But for summoning memories, for transporting us to distant times, for evoking and stirring feelings that we didn’t know were still there, there is scent.
There is only scent."
Featured on Elle's online Life & Love column, Steve Friedman writes on falling in love—forever—with the scent of a woman;
Oct 22, 2011
the fierce storm recedes. the sun dances between the clouds, teasing and illuminating the water with shimmers and sparkles. the electric tension is gone- our world feels renewed, revived and realigned and we do, too.
English Bay Seawall, Vancouver BC
Oct 19, 2011
what goes around comes around, and look at that- this statement has come up again. it's the tiredest cliché of clichés but much like an annoying groupie, it just keeps showing up.
the 1970's; pet rocks, platforms, bellbottoms and tracksuits. is that painting an image of glamour and sex in your mind? me too.
inspired by john baldessari's 1971 famously mundane 13 minute video, internationally pledging not to make boring art- freeway (founded by alex isreal) a los angeles eyewear company -has created a limited edition pair of baldessari sunglasses, printed on their l.a. ray frames with the words "i will not look at any more boring art" inscribed on the arm.
having an editorial feature in the november issue of w magazine, these baddies are going to get snapped up quick. so if you want em- get em! and if you got em- watch your back because you might just get jumped by me.
whether it's to make a statement, or have a creep on the subway hover extra close to your face to see what's going on near your temple-region, these are for you.
Oct 10, 2011
"Go. Go and stand before things that are bigger than yourself."
Now that I've had a chance to let the dust settle on the experience, knowledge and information I've been so graciously given over the last month in Paris, I'm only now able to summarize my life’s new shift in direction.
As a writer, I'm finding it extremely difficult to find the words to express my gratitude to all the people I've met in the last month at the Paris Fashion Institute. The only functioning statement I can say to express exactly the experience I've had would be this- if you are ready to change your life, to never look back, and are ready to surpass your career expectations, this is the seminar for you.
I came to this course ready to make it happen for myself, was extremely motivated, and here with an agenda. I can only truthfully speak from this place- as I didn't just graduate, my parents didn't pay for me, nor did I come to just get drunk on cheap wine. This was a life-changing month for me, and it only surpassed my expectations.
Exceeding the elite educational material of the program is a woman who is willing to help her "kids" out. The fairy godmother of fashion herself, Joan P. White, has a little black book bigger than a New York City phonebook- and she wants to show it to you. She will tell you exactly how it is, and if there's something that would make sense for you, you'll have it. And that's just the way it is. Don't ask questions- it just is.
In this city, with my fairy godmother looking out for me, it's fair for me to say to myself
"You mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling!"
A special thanks to all the wonderful people I've met during the seminar- I'll be seeing you. x
Aug 30, 2011
The love affair between chalk and I started haphazardly, about two years ago now:
The night was dark, it was raining, and the roads were slick. It was on the dim lit streets where I was meandering between puddles, when it happened- I witnessed the most disturbing sight (and I watch Joan Rivers' Fashion Police religiously). Car accident, you ask? No. It was worse. There lying on the sidewalk was the remains of the most intricate, and detailed hopscotch I had ever seen. Helpless, it's beautiful geometry was melting down the sidewalk into the gutter. I swore that blustery night; I would dedicate a major portion of my career to chalk pens- the more permanent descendant of sidewalk chalk- and their resurrection.
Since then, our relationship has become nearly offensive. In memory of that day, chalk- my dusty bitch lover, this one's for you.
Aug 28, 2011
Things get better with age- that saying holds true when referencing fine wine, cheese, men. Parisians articulate this notion, to a fault. I have an absolute appreciation for the worn, the loved, and the developed. However, when it has anything to do with technology, space planning and mechanics, there are some things better left in the past- and not in my pocket.
Do you have an oversized clés in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me? No, but seriously? Doors are opened with thumbprints, and numbers and secret passwords- not bent metal that would slip nicely in a hotdog bun. With relish, merci.
In the last few days, I’ve spent the better part of my time making friends with Selena Gomez’ backup singers, and sleeping my way through the Sunday markets. But, to my defence- I have managed to find the most perfect 1km loop to shop for future ex-husbands while prancing around in tights that are obviously 2 sizes too small. The problem I’m facing, is not the exquisite shape and luster of my newly adopted baggage, it’s comfort- or lack there of- that having a 6’5’’ key shoved down my pants just can’t offer. At least in the city d’amour my heat is packed where everyone is looking anyway.
Aug 25, 2011
Shortly after a shotgun one-way ticket purchase to France, it donned on me- the only real mastery in the language of love frequently appeared to me in the form of French fries and French kissing. Being most familiar with the latter, I decided while en route to my new Parisian abode- now would be an optimum time to decipher that romantic language.
While desperately trying to convince my driver the only real reason to have a love affair with a Frenchmen would be to learn the language (that, and I happen to have serious cravings for men in skinny jeans) he exclaimed “I have the perfect solution to your, how you say, ‘redondants’ in French. You will speak with my daughter, she’s 13.”
A mere 45 minutes later, I had signed myself up for a one-on-one tutoring session with Jean-Marc’s 13-year-old daughter. I’m assuming it will go one of two ways; either she will insultingly criticize or awkwardly idolize me. In preparation for tomorrow’s potentially catastrophic linguistics class, I went on a hot pursuit for the closest Justin Bieber poster equivalent to give to my freshly sharpened box of crayons, Marina. With my new spectacles and the smartest outfit I own ready for tomorrow, I can confidently say I’m more than likely about to have my own Selena Gomez concert in my flat by this time next week.