Your Phone & You

My mobile. My cellular device. My alarm clock. My facebook. My bank account. My newsstand. My movies. My music. My postage stamp. My hand held love--

My iPhone.

Now I don’t really care if you have the Droid, or a phone that isn’t qualified “smart.”

For most of us…your phone is your World. It’s your time machine back to whatever place you wish to travel. The number that is now titled in your contact info: DO NOT PICK UP. Yeah… we’ve all got a few of those.

That ring tone about how much you were “born this way.”

Your phone is who you are. You decide who you call just like you decide who becomes a new friend. If you lost it tonight at the bar and someone picked it up they would see a huge part of your world. They would learn how I’m a private person due to the pass-code lock. If they knew me well they would know the number and why I chose it.

They would swipe their thumb through my music selection. They would learn I love Elvis Presley and Billy Joel, but that I also, at some point, went through a phase where I made numerous playlists featuring Brand New and Paramore.

They would look through my texts, which would reveal my love for conversation and how much I value a good texting response rate in another person. If I have to wait more than an hour for a reply? I lose interest. Texting has risen to be a powerful act these days, especially in the form of love and romance. One text can change the course of a day…or a relationship. I’m not trying to be cliché or say something profound… I’m just telling you the truth. Texting my friends, has become quite the art.

There’s the text from friends where you exchange favorite movie quotes. The text from mom asking you why you never call. 
And the text from that new person, where you go ask your friends how long you should wait to respond... don’t lie…we all do that.

Texting can illustrate your intelligence, but it can always highlight one’s desperation.

The power that a text holds when it lights up your phone at 2:37am is pretty awing. Granted the person is probably drunk, despite any disclaimers that you’ll receive the next morning. Yet, in that moment, that message is your personal telegram. It’s your own dancing leprechaun holding balloons and a few kind words that are meant just for you.

Each text session is in itself a miniature story of miscommunication and smileys. And yet, I love a good text message to wake up to in the morning.

Next they’d check my address book. I’m guessing their first question would be:

“Who the hell is this Voldemort number?”

and their second:

“Who names someone Mr. Nice Jeans in their phone?”

The little black book is now the brown spiral. I have exactly 400 contacts in my address book, and anyone looking at that would probably scoff and say, “you don’t talk to all those people.”

But they wouldn’t know that I actually do.

Your contact list, through its adds and removals is a news feed of friendships and relationships. Which ones will be added to your Favorites list and which ones will you wince at while they illuminate your screen.  It’s always interesting how excited we are when putting in a new contact, and how viciously we can take them right out.

During a recent conversation with my friend Kelley, she pointed out that the end of a relationship isn’t just sitting around with the girls and talking about how wronged you were, or how you wish things could have been different.

Now, modern-day closure is the act of deleting the pictures of faded happiness on your phone.  It’s deciding whether or not you remove that person’s number, which sparks new age debate…the debate we all struggle with. Keep the number so you know it’s them when they try calling, or delete it so you avoid the excellent life choice of calling while holding a box of Franzia. Either way… it’s a toss-up. My recommendation?
Assign a notable ringtone and be done with it.

Missing someone isn’t just wishing they were still around. It has become the act of staring at their number and debating whether or not to hit “call.”

A good friend of mine past away last year and it was only a month ago that I noticed her number still in my phone. Funny how the person may be gone, but the contact can live on forever. I actually didn’t delete it either, finding it oddly comforting that a part of her, her phone number, I could still carry around with me.

I think the stranger looking through my phone would judge me for not having “Words with Friends” or “Angry Birds”… which purely on principle I refuse to buy.  They would however be impressed at how I have the NY Times, The Wallstreet Journal, and CNN.

They’d never know that I get most of my news from my People Magazine app and Twitter.

The ESPN Fantasy Football app would cause them some confusion, or maybe they’d just think I was just a super cool girl.

Note: I am not. I have it for when my boyfriend’s phone dies at the bar on Sundays and he needs to know how his teams are doing.

Right next to it they’d see my Chase app, and if they were down on their luck, perhaps try and steal my money by quick-paying themselves.

They would go through my photos, which have not been edited in terms of relevance in over a year. They’d see a bunch of pictures of jewelry, New York, Paris, and my cat. After which they’d conclude my boring existence and turn my phone into the bar tender and say, “Someone forgot this.”

The next morning I’d wake up and upon realizing its absence, fly into a fury of search and rescue. Recounting my steps from the night before I’d fine my phone, and going through it be relieved that everything is just as I left it. Like coming home from a long trip abroad, I’d feel at peace.  My world still intact, I’d go about my day, never knowing that a stranger strolled through my life last night…and him never knowing what I looked like. 

I’d go through any unanswered texts and while sipping my Starbucks read the Top 5 on my People app.

My time machine, my therapist, my shopping list, my enabler.

Your phone isn’t just your phone…it’s what you keep in the closet. It’s how you talk, what you talk about, who you talk to. It’s your facebook update, and that boy who you should’ve stopped texting four months ago. It’s your guilty pleasure song and how you still have some Disney soundtracks on your “most recently played.”

Your phone is your mobile memories and a foreshadow of perhaps what is to come.


My Marilyn Moment

Isn't it funny that we make icons out of the youthful dead? Yet there exists this idea, that the icons we put in frames, left this world to avoid just that. Their lives were fragile, with only a glass pane to separate themselves from their everlasting audience. I for one, would love to have been an icon. The very idea of paparazzi intrugues me to no end. To have people follow you about, and make art out of your every movement?  I could handle that for a month...but probably not for a lifetime.

Perhaps in a past life I was an icon, but I don't believe the legendary souls get recycled. In which case I hope this is my first and last trip here.  I like to think that they're all up there lounging about and drinking the champagne of fame. Marilyn Monroe is undoubtedly one of them. She stands away from the scattered spotlights, and right where the shadows are cast she resides. There in the ever-elusive shade she can breathe a little easier knowing she can use her lungs and not her breasts. 

Since I was a child, Marilyn has been hanging up on my wall. And how could she not?  To a young blonde girl whose curves pronounced themselves without invitation, Marilyn illustrated the grace and effortless beauty that I craved.  So it is of no surprise to anyone that I am beyond excited for her new film, My Week With Marilyn to debut. The actress depicting the legend was interestingly enough once linked to a youthful deceased herself. I can imagine Michelle Williams' intrigue on what it is like to leave on one's own accord. To flee a world whose love crushes you from the inside out.

In the October edition of Vogue, Michelle does a spread of her new character's poignant poises and executes them quite perfectly. My top two can be seen below, the first Marlilyn (nee Michelle) can be seen reading. Reading or running away? Reading for the purpose of education or for the appeal of being edcuated? Makes you wonder. What went on in the mind of Marilyn?

The next photo is my most favorite. It is the only reflective image of the all american dinner party. Alone, beautiful, and not able to eat. Why? Well the appetite can't be satisfied with silver and gold forever and even the famous crave the warm harvests of a home. The hotel vagabond is always left waning....or so she has us believe.

I wish I could have my own week with Marilyn and ask her what it all was like. Compare my experiences to her own and ask what ignited the courage within her to change her name and begin all anew.  I wonder tonight what Norma would tell us about love, marriage, work, and a life invested in trying to be leisurely. The song follow you into the dark comes on my playlist and I watch the rain brush upon against the window pane. Maybe we're not so different from Marilyn, maybe the difference is what happens after you walk into the shadows. Either someone turns on a light for you, or you rest for a lifetime in the dimness of a life not lived. As for me, I don't care how badly my body gets scorched. I'd take a life over an existence any day. Life just sounds more beautiful. And isn't that what we're all after during our time here? We're all after a little something beautiful.




All Hail the High School Fashionista

I am attempting to start a Fashion Club at my former high school.

Now a few of you may and already have asked me... Why KB?


I feel that as a high schooler you have three options:

1. Join an athletic team
2. Be a member of Swing Choir.
3. Be an Honors Student.

or... as I like to see it...

1. ESPN Addiction.
2. Cult member.
3. Nerd.

At the risk of getting a ridiculous amount of hate mail from all the Swing Choir kiddos I'm facebook friends with, don't be offended, I fell into Group #3. Because after all, it's all about your "group" in high school. It's just a matter of finding out what that is, or realizing there really isn't one that's just the right fit.

In high school it's easy to get lost in the shuffle, especially for those blessed with the sparkle of a creative nature. With websites like Tumblr, Polyvore, CollegeFashionista, and LookBook taking over our mac book bookmarks, what are high schools offering to the teen Fashionistas/Fashionistos?

Although at times one can draw parallels between The Devil Wears Prada and the fashion world that is my own, I have never had my boss request 25 Hermes scarves.  Members of fashion's future family need an organization to explore their options, while pursuing their passions at the same time.

This is the beginning of a huge undertaking...and the making of a dream.

Style, I've always preached from my high heels is a right, not a privilege. The fashion world's doors are intimidating, but one can easily pick the lock on its media-made exclusivity.  I want to offer my younger fellow fashion friends an outlet in which they can explore the industry of bright lights and color, while doing so from the comfort of their classroom desks. The lofty goals of this club will include the following:

1. Introducing members to Fashion Industry 101
-here we will answer questions like:
what is styling? what is buying? do i want to pursue merchandising? how can i get involved right now?
 ...and many MORE.

2. Trips to the City
-in fashion we get dirty. fashionistas do everything and anything and get the job done well. in taking trips to events like StyleMax, AKIRA fashion shows, and exploring the world where fashion meets maker (aka retail), fashion club members will get a hands on experience and begin their fashion journeys during their teens and be years ahead of those just beginning in college.

3. Developing a High School Fashionista Website
-An online blog for each High School in the Northwest Suburbs. In working for CollegeFashionista, I've learned the power of sharing your style saviness with your peers. What better way to do this than to look around your own high school and report on the trends?
High school is the foundation for each individual's fashion greatness...where the stitches of style are sewn.

4. Fashion Show of [your] own.
-Putting on a grand show to illustrate the trends of today's teen queens and kings.  After all, not everyone shops at American Eagle.

So fingers crossed & more to come...can't wait to see where this new venture goes! If any of you have any ideas or would like to contribute please get in contact with me!




12 on 22... September Eleventh Revisited.

10 years and 6 days ago...I sat in my classroom and learned about Algebra. I was in 7th grade and my mind was centered on whether a blonde boy named Kyle would take me to the dance that Friday. I still had frizzy hair back then, and my curls reigned supreme, springing randomly from the makeshift bun that had attempted to contain them after gym class. My best friend Alyssa was in a different class and so, as not to miss a thing about eachother's days, we would write notes back and forth, exchanging them at each passing period. My note was centered on Kyle and a list of reasons why I think he would/would not ask. It was a Tuesday and I felt confident that the next four days were all I needed to gain his attention. The next weekend was my Uncle's wedding and all the talk about love had me in a rush to snag me a boyfriend. What can I say? At twelve your priorities are different.  I was in love with Sean from Boy Meets World, and Kyle could've been his twin. In my pre teen bliss, my chipped polished finger nails scribbled our names together and united the two with an encompassing heart.  After folding the note in the latest note folding trend (this week was a complex triangle), I admired my handy work with pride. For, back during middle school how you folded your notes was just as important as the color of your new Adidas sneakers. For example...mine were striped with pink.

The bell rang and I hurried to meet Alyssa at our usual spot, which happened to be her locker. Today though, Alyssa came running up to me with our group of girlfriends in tow. All of their faces were pointedly somber and I felt my heart sink.

Kyle must have told them he wasn't going to ask me to the dance. 

Alyssa grabbed my arm and our eyes met...something had happened in the city she said, and the World Trade Center had just been hit by a plane...or so she had heard. I blinked a few times not comprending what this meant..."the Twin Towers?" I asked for clarification and in response she nodded, her eyes welling up with tears, not initially from sadness, but from the confusion of being young and confused. Our group huddled around until the bell rang and we were forced to disband and hurry to our classes. Sitting in my class I looked around at everyone.  Michelle was smacking her gum and gossiping about her twin sister, Grant was reading Harry Potter, and Cindy had squealed with glee when I sat down next to her and had begun to inform me that Kyle planned on asking me during recess.

Nothing that bad could have happened in the world, I reasoned on repeat in my head. Look, I said to myself, look at how normal everything is...

Mrs. Cealey got up from her desk and began our history lesson. Ironic I think now, that as I learned about history, it was being made 40 minutes away from my school desk.  A half hour or so into class the school called an emergency assembly and in finding my group of friends, we hud together to hear what the hell was going on. The principle took the microphone and assured us we were safe and that a terrorist attack had occurred in my beloved New York City. Two planes had crashed into the World Trade Center, one had hit the Pentagon, and the other into a field. I sat there, amongst my friends and felt an overwhelming sense of time. The minute before her chapped lips opened, my young life had been untouched by global tragedy...all of ours had. Only 96 minutes ago had I been writing about my girlhood crush on Kyle and how nice Kristin Cealey would sound one day down the road when he would undoubtedly propose. And now...now I looked around at my peers and friends with no words to offer.  For as we sat there, A good half of the student body's parents were dying in a collapsing tower. Our family members were running into those burning buildings, trying in vain to save their mothers and fathers.

And we were just sitting in a middle school gym toying with our gel pens and trying to talk like adults. There was nothing we could do as we were all dismissed to recess and one by one my friends' names were called over the intercom that a parent or guardian had come to pick them up.

That day when I got home from school, I watched my mother and father cry at the sight before them on the television. I sat next to them on the couch and cried as well, knowing that our community was largely made up of firefighter's and police officer's children.  My uncles were on the Search & Rescue efforts and I thanked God more times than I can remember that my father had not been traveling. Alyssa and I talked on the phone later that night and two twelve year old girls talked about how the world had just changed.

The next morning was filled with American flags, Bush speeches, and empty eyes. School was a wasteland as many kids were preparing for funerals instead of studying for exams.  We leaned on each other the next couple days, and not one teacher mentioned the words 9/11. Instead we talked about history, numbers, and stories...anything that could offer us an escape from the present.

I remember the following weekend my Uncle's wedding went on as scheduled with a firm New Yorker mentality. Driving over the Queensboro bridge, I could see the smoke still floating up into the sky, soiling the heavens with remnants of terror. I offered up my prayers to my loved ones and my allegiance to my country. For, as a twelve year old girl, that's all I had to give.

I remember asking my Dad what he thought would happen next. He replied, "Tomorrow will happen and then the day after that."  The word still has never been so pure and satisfying...tomorrow, I thought, the day after today, the moment after right now, and the future that guides this heartbreaking present.

9/11 is not just a day to me, it's a lesson in tomorrows. The lesson being that tomorrows aren't just pre-existing. Rather, they are given to you. Given to you by the hardships of yesterday and the courage of today. My prayers and thoughts go out to everyone who can remember where they were 10 years ago when the world changed, and I hope you extend your prayers out into the world as well. Because from a decade of growth, comes the challenge to continue in doing so. And from the eyes of this twenty-two year old woman I hope we as a nation, continue to do just that.




Word Vomit.

Picasso, they say, had to draw or sketch at least once a day. Throughout his lifetime, he had to have his creative upheaval, or else risk suffocating on his own brilliance. I believe the same can be true with other artists, or at least the real ones. At least once, throughout every twenty-four hour rotation, you will feel that need to share whatever it is you've just fabricated in that mind of yours. The artist's body tenses while the mind sprints a marathon of highways, each exit threatening the dead end to which this euphoria of thought will arrive.  In the life of an artist, this is our Salah.

While I write I hate to be interrupted. Even the most minimal unwanted noise will alert my brain to an impending intruder of seeing my work before its complete...and spell checked.

The lighting, or at least in my ideal "writing world", has to be dim or natural. I remember scribbling away a poem under the harsh lights of my high school classroom thinking how everyone paled under the fluorescent flaw-finder and that I would never use what was being taught in real life.

Lighting for an artist, even writers, is quintessential. I prefer a big room with windows, its dimness letting my mind wonder about the shadows. There I sit on a bed. I'll never know how people can write at desks. Too rigid. Too formal. I sit at a desk, knowing there is someone sitting at a bigger one.

As for beds? Well I don't need a big bed.

Beds leave the spirit comfortable, or at least they do that to mine. I lay on a bed and I instantly playback my day...the people, the outfits, the colors, the words...and if it was a good day, I am left feeling inspired.

Writing is what I'm doing when I've become disinterested in conversation. For writers, each minute is the light tapping of letters, forming a monologue that must be poured out. My incessant writing is what has kept me sane when I'm sitting at my country club. Listening to the drones of the wealthy I find myself cast back in a Jane Austen novel, or better yet Edith Wharton and here I am, the Lily Bart of the new millennium. With this light tapping, I can find the words that often escape us in the moment most desired and my delivery is without falter.

I'm aware this post is a bit slanted compared to my usual stylized banter, but style does not obey the immigration laws of society. It roots itself in everything that we are, and for me...that is my words.

Fashion is what I do...but writing-that's what I am.




le 23 mai.

"Most days of the year are unremarkable. They begin, and they end, with no lasting memories made in between. Most days have no impact on the course of a life. May 23rd was a Wednesday." 
We all have a May 23rd. It's the moment where you reevaluate your life and say to yourself: 
Am I living this right? 
or...if you're me...
God. I have no clue what I'm doing.

I love moments like May 23rd.  I'm a sucker for a good beginning, yet I'm always wondering how it ends. When I meet someone I'm already thinking how they'll leave, why I'll grow sick of them, or if by some chance of fate...we'll never be without each other. Imagine that....someone you never say goodbye to...makes you think, or maybe if you're one of the lucky ones, then I've just made you smile.

I think a lot of my life can be explained by the fact that I listen to a lot of Regina Spektor. To me, my life is a clever story played out on a piano. When I go running, my play list consists of 3 main players:

& billy joel.

It was Eminem that I listened to on my first day of work. Eminem and the song "I Made It" by Kevin Rudolph. I imagine this probably gave the person next to me at every red light quite a laugh, watching some blonde girl drive her Honda CRV like she was Tupac's sidekick. But hey-we all have dreams.

My May 23rd doesn't begin with meeting a someone special, but rather it began with a woman asking me to choose which health insurance I'd like. I had just received my new work ID and I wasted no time in decorating my cubicle with photos of friends and family. Sitting at my desk, my high heels crossed with one leg over the other, I couldn't help but smile. Against all the "it'll never happen" and "the fashion industry is so hard to break into"...I had at last done it- I had proved them all wrong.  It was this discovery that would create a domino of change in my life, beginning with the end of my four year relationship. Respectfully my college boyfriend and I chose our own paths and I found myself, albiet by my own choice, standing alone for the first time since high school, ironically living back in my high school hometown.

This summer we all came home with the feeling of being so over college. We were ready for more, we wanted the future...and we wanted money. What most of us got were no phone calls back, student loans, and a predictable return from our self inflicted "high school hiatus" as we began to text and call all the friends we had bid adieu to four years earlier.

Living back at home is interesting. By day I'm a working Fashionista, salvaging style and laboring over pantones. By night, I feel as though I'm back to being seventeen, where my mom makes my dinner, my friends come over daily, and anytime before midnight just seems unsuitable to be in bed.  And yet, I could not be happier. Summer, I've always believed is a time for things to happen that could never blossom in the winter. I call it that "summer magic." Because under the summer sun, everything comes forward with a glisten of promise.  The promise that although you may not be granted 500 days of summer...there's always something more to be found in Autumn.




A Vintage Victory?

This summer for me has been different in so many ways. Most of these differences reside in my personal life and the fact that my career in fashion has taken flight. I have been officiated into the court of Fashion royals I suppose, which after a long trek is incredibly rewarding. And it is this royalty, this idea of understated glamor that has populated the U.S. much faster than the NFL can come to some sort of an agreement. I mean really-they say women have trouble deciding? No, women can decide and men want every option.

Yet back to our message, this summer has a sepia tone that was undoubtedly inspired from the age of a past generation. Sitcoms like Mad Men have brought a new kind of style to the forefront of American fashion culture. It is not just the floral brocades that make this time period alluring. Rather, as Mad Men stylist Janie Bryant states, "it is that time of Camelot and pre-disasters in America and you really get a little glimpse into what that life was all about, before assassinations and before war, just all very pristine and perfect." Perhaps this is the reason why retail manufacturers across the world are donning a style incredibly reminiscent of a more perfect era. It is interesting to observe this conservative fashion revival, in a time where liberal inklings dominate the popular opinion. Why is it that women are flocking to mimic their Grandmothers, and men the icons of the past?

Has the age old belief been validated that everything comes full circle? This question has been tugging at my thoughts all week. In looking at the fashions that are approaching with the change in season, there is an organic divide occurring in the fashion community. There are those of the revolutionary nature and there are those who charge ahead in hopes of a vintage victory. I'm incredibly intrigued to see who is crowned the victor, for I find myself a double agent, constantly floating between the two camps with my ever changing outfit choices.  Is it possible that we'll be the love child generation of the  Jones' and the Modernists?  In terms of fashion, I am curious to see. I love my modernism, but I must confess, a good collared sundress is one of favorite things.




Piano Man's Daughter

They say that when you don't know where you are- look back to where you came from. And tonight my friends is exactly what I need to do. Working in fashion, I'm no stranger to the immediate judgment I receive based on what outlandish or [Grace Kelly] classy ensemble I've chosen for the day. The original post for today will be coming out later in the week because tonight, as Billy Joel churns the vocals that lulled me to sleep as a little girl, he's bringing back the memories of sweet blueberries and cigarette smoke. It's easy to be coy with my writing and I love to change up my tone, so tonight will be a sweet melody.

Just call me the Piano Man's daughter.

There's something we do everyday, whether its the girl and her baby daddy walking along the sidewalk to get to the Jewel, or the man holding up a sign stating that he's a Veteran without a home. I'm guilty of it, and I believe so are the many of this world. We judge. We look and we crown ourselves the writers of the world and text ourselves a snippet that sums up years of misunderstanding. That's the thing about fashion sometimes, it casts us all in a role that makes the suburbia driveways stages of superb performance. Yet what happens when you want to roll up in your blankets and ask yourself the question that's been pulsing my mind...How many people really know you?

I get this all the time. I have a bursting-at-the-seams personality...no doubt of that. Ever since I was little I chased the firefly of limelight and have longed to keep him in a jar by my bedside. Yet, here I am, looking in the mirror at the age twenty-two and I'm surprised. No one would ever know that back in first grade they called me Chipmunk Cheeks. My smile will never fully close due to my misconstructed jaw. Meaning? I've never used my front two teeth to bite into a New York slice of pizza. I used to wear a self made tiara of butterfly clips in my hair everyday...and I thought I looked incredible. I began my writing as a way to handle moving around better. I would write the life I hoped each new state would bring. First story was titled Maddie.

Holding my Tory Butch clutch, no one would guess that I grew up wishing for stairs.

I didn't come from a family with money, I came from a family whose pores bore out ambition and determination. I grew up looking at my friends with their two story homes and begging my mother for a big house. A good lesson of being careful what you wish for.

I will not argue that money can bring you pretty damn close to happiness- but it will not carry you all the way home.

On my mother's side I am the first college graduate and I walked that stage for two people. My mother and grandmother, the two most brilliant women I have ever had the honor of knowing.

My grandmother's name was Barbara Jean McClory. And she was the one who took a whirlwind of a child and turned me into the portrait of a lady. I owe my life, my inspiration, and my fast beating heart to this special lady.

I don't want to live my life. I want to experience it.

I want my life to play out like the Piano Man's song...sweet and rhythmic.

So tonight as we all close our eyes, let's remember where it all began.

Because at the end of my story I'm an Irish girl born in Queens, NY. 
Take away my designer wallet, my fancy linen harem pants, and wipe the YSL mascara off my lashes. I've got something that can't be bought...and I think it's something more people have than they realize.

I have my story. So remember to take time to write yours.




It's Not E! It's KB!

You know when you watch the E! True Hollywood Story of Holly Madison and you feel a kindred spirit...you're in trouble. Not that I have anything against the playboy starlit, but I'm pretty sure she's not the woman my mother would want me looking up to. Yet, hearing Holly dish over her relationship with Hugh Hefner, who she titled, "the first love of her life." I found myself looking at the TV, eating my califlower mash potatoes and thinking... I get it.

I still occasionally hear from my "Hugh."

You know you remember him. Heck, maybe you're still dating him. You remember the fights, the laughs, the kisses, the stories exchanged, first dates, first concerts, first [Parents VS Boyfriend], first break up, and first nights spent crying until you thought you couldn't cry anymore. You remember holding your head high when you heard about his new girlfriend. The way it felt when he called you out of nowhere to say hey...and well...so does Holly Madison. In hearing her talk about her break up with Hugh, I realized how similar it was to most of my own and my friends' break up brawls. Her sense of loss and need to "always have a boyfriend" is something I too have experienced.

You know the kind...that girl who always has a new guy, or the friend who you always see settling. The scary thing about being twenty-two is that the mistakes we make with men/women effect us more.

This ain't your high school playground and broken hearts take longer to mend.

Usually I'm incredibly guarded about my personal life and my views on the roller coaster of love.
But after recent events I feel the need to dish like Holly.

So here it is: The KB! True Hollywood Story of...First Loves, Backup Boys, and Life after the Ex Factor.

Chapter 1: First Loves

I met my ex at the soulful age of 17 and fell head over Steve Madden heels in love. Think: The Notebook.  It was summer, I was young, he was in his early twenties and well...there's nothing like romance in a good sun dress. Basically, I was Holly and he was Hugh. The world looked on in confusion and the roller coaster of dating began. Once a week was World War III. Yet everyday I craved the high you get from the passion-fueled relationship of that first time. Remember the way you used to watch your phone guys and gals? It'd be an hour and...OMG...not ONE TEXT?!
Cause I do. I'd turn my phone off if I hadn't heard from him-- for all of five minutes. I tried to maintain my independent indifference, but love...passionate love...becomes an addiction. It's sick and you know it. You know the steam engine is gonna run out and just like Titanic you're gonna push till your heart rips open from the imminent iceberg. You're the Captain of the ship and you're 'mates' are crying out "Just leave him!... It's dysfunctional!...You need to find someone else!" But your eyes are locked...you're gonna make it past the iceberg of heartbreak and you're gonna be fine. Y'all aren't breaking up. You can't break up love. The voices of "Iceberg right ahead!" drown in your fabricated logic of true love and your rationalizations of his mistakes. No you think...this can't be it...

Lesson: First loves are Titanic. It's glamorous, it's beautiful, and it's going to sink.

Chapter 2: Backup Boys

While you're in the lifeboat of heartbreak, your friends crowd around you attempting you revitalize your frost bitten soul. It's over? But... you told him everything. He knows you. He was that guy. You saw a future together...you saw freakin kids!!! Well, guess what your friends say...
He obviously didn't.
As you near the RMS Carpathia, you think about how your life is over. I know I did. No one else will 'get' them like you did. And what if they date someone new? The very thought sends toxins to your heart which threatens to give up and stop beating. You're in mourning you snap at your friends. Mourning the loss of first love. Yet, while riding the Carpathia, something amazing happens. You're riding the RMS of Rebounds and it is then you meet your BB's. No...I'm not talkin bout bad boys.
You meet your Backup Boys.

These are the guys who get you through it all. They give you the attention you find yourself missing. They give you the cuddle time you thought you'd never have again. And most importantly they teach you to let someone in after heartache. They educate you on the importance of options...and always having a Plan B. With your first love you didn't know any better. You thought, I'm in love and this is it. Backup Boys are what they say, they show you how when love ends it's nice to have a guy with unlimited texting. It eases the pain and is essential to moving on. During this time you develop 2-3 men in your life who you seriously contemplate dating. Yet...you won't date any of them.

Lesson: Remember when Rose was chillin' on the Carpathia crying over Jack? That's you right now. But don't worry...the land of promise awaits.

Chapter 3: Life After the Ex Factor

You were promised streets paved with gold, not hearts. Yet here in the land of opportunity, you dip your foot back into the dating pool and you like what you see. Eventually you meet him. And you say to yourself...this is why I went through what I went through. You're so happy to be back on dry land that you kiss your Backup Boys adieu (no easy feat) and you begin Take Two at Love.

But this time you aren't drowning in a sea of confusion. You're standing firm.

Take Two might be right. Or Take Four might end up perfection. You go through phases with this new Mr. Right. You compare him to Mr. Wrong for the first few months... and find yourself even missing the times Mr. Wrong made you cry. Then something amazing happens...you look across the table at him, that great guy who just smiles back at you as you sip your coffee and you think...Let's do this. Let's set sail.

And you do my friends. You lace up your Sperrys and sail off into the horizon. Maybe forever, maybe just for a few months. But you sail again knowing you'll find your way back to the shoreline...
and that...
that's the most important part of living & loving.

Don't be afraid of sinking--we all have a Titanic.




Awkwardly Inspired

For those of you who haven't heard, this month hasn't exactly been my fav. With the deaths of two incredible young people (whose talents exceed their passing) I have been feeling hopeless and looking towards the heavens with the questions of 'Why?' Alas, God doesn't have unlimited texting like the rest of us so I have to find my answers from the world outside my apartment window.  But you know what happens right when you accept God's terms...he throws you a pair of suede pumps  and with a smile says, Now keep them clean. Impossible? Perhaps. But I like to think that sometimes I can throw a curve ball at God too.

I got news today that the internship I've been praying for, vying for, and basically obsessing over--rejected me. Ouch right? Now I'm not gonna play Mother Theresa on you, I don't do yoga, rather, I believe in the power of Starbucks. Nothin centers my world like a Soy Chai Latte (Venti of course). So with my venti in my shaking hands, I sipped the delicious blend of spiced soy milk and through the rivers of mascara tried to see the light. Three punches to the face makes for some hardcore bruising...but eventually it doesn't hurt to touch. Thoughts blurred ALL rational reasoning and visions of me living in my parents basement, gaining thirty pounds, and working back at Jewel Osco set my heart into a panic.  

Why didn't I choose to the follow my Pre-Law track?! 
I'd be admitted into a Law School by now....

but...as a good friend reminded me...I wouldn't be doing what I love. I sat there and thought about the lives that had recently and unjustly ended and tried to put my life in perspective. Sobs continued to escape my body but after a couple minutes I looked in the mirror and thought,  

KB--what the F are you doing here girl? You've got two guardian angels up there who wouldn't have let this happen if there wasn't something great waiting for you at the end of this runway. 

And then my friends, something truly organic began to grow from within me and I felt...well... awkwardly inspired. Dreams that I unconsciously ignored began to resurface and instead of seeing my post-grad life as bleak and gray, it transformed into a blank canvas of opportunity. I always wanted to open my own store. Start my own company. Begin designing my own line. Work some more fashion shows. Get my hands into new and exciting fashion revolutions...so why not start now? Life slowly turned back into something beautiful. More now than ever I am reminded that our lives are not our own and that whether we like it or not, we all need to hand it over to (whatever you believe in...universe...god...buddha...) and say: alright bud--show me the way.

So there ya go Chicago-- you've got me for a little while longer. Let's have some fun....rock out to some Gaga and live out the dreams that we have in these Chi City hearts of ours. Because as easy as it is to sit here and say poor me and cry about it....
I've got some guardian angels up there that I can't disappoint.

Things to come:

-Trademarking The Life of KB.
-Consulting with a Boutique Consultant about opening my own store....
-Letting God & my beautiful angels show me the way.

Don't let anything get you down friends. Strut your stuff on the runway of life.

Because as for me? I'm rockin' those suede pumps.




OPI Nail Polish...What's really in a name?

For most people, last Tuesday was just a normal Tuesday, but for a blonde girl living in Chicago, it was a night for the books. A night of revelation. A moment of clairty and long awaited discovery.

It was the night I tried OPI nail polish. And here I sit, 6 days later with polished nails that have not even one chip in them.  The name of the one I'm sporting? I'm not sure, but I'm sure it's something clever like "Sparkly Socialite" or "New York City at 2 am."

And on that note I want to beg the question...who has the job of naming OPI nail polishes and are they hiring?? Because I've got some good ones. They need to give Lincoln Park more hours of the day. Right now we're just covering 'after dark' and 'after midnight' but what are we really doing for the day people? Come on now OPI, not every lady is a night owl...or a socialite, which we all know is a pretty word for...well you know. What we really neeed is a 'Lincoln Park at Noon' or better yet 'Lincoln Park Between the Hours of 9pm-9am'

Whoever has that job, I hope you read this and give me a shout out. Because I think it's time y'all up your game.  I mean what girl is going be nail polish shopping, see a pretty coral red, see the name 'Cajun Shrimp' and think yup-that's the perfect nail polish for me. I'm sorry, but the only time I'll have 'Cajun Shrimp' on my nails is when I'm eating cajun shrimp. Food should never be apart of a nail polish name, because while you're painting your nails, all your going to be thinking of is how ironic it's going to be if you hit up Bahama Breeze that weekend and grab some shrimp with your cajun colored fingers. I will give OPI credit for having a nail polish that is quality, but the names need a resurgence. To name a few:

Deer Valley Spice....I'm picturing...

Nomad's Dream. Are these the dreamers?

Because this is not what I'm envisioning...

Have you seen my Limo? Girl-if I have my nails did...this shouldn't even be a question. But alas, this is what I'm seeing...
 But This?

Not so much. 

There are some times where OPI gets it right, but I don't know where their head was at with a couple of these names. We need more options. Because let's face it. When you pick up a nail polish, read the bottom label and it says "Your Ex's New GF is Prettier than You"...you probably aren't going to buy it.

We need more nail polish names that celebrate us as women, not what time it is in Chicago, or some play on words like in the new Texas collection, "It's Totally Not Fort Worth It"--Sorry OPI...I don't live in Texas. Actually nor do I live in Lincoln Park. I want nail polish names that I'm going to love forever.  Like if I picked up a polish and the bottom read: 

"Wow. You are the picture of success and beauty." 

Now that's what I'm talkin about! 

So while I am still a recent OPI convert due to its long lasting durability--I gotta say that I don't want my fingernail color denoting a state or a time frame. But maybe that's just me, maybe some ladies like shrimp that much that they wanna be reminded of their fav meal every time they look down at their hands. Gotta say though OPI... I kinda doubt it. So here's some suggestions for your next collection. I propose you name it College Grad....
This Polish Means you got into Graduate School
You Survived 4 Years of FB Addiction
You're Hired!
Here's a free apartment so you don't have to move home... 

Let's see if OPI is game. Because the last one is a polish I'd wear everyday. I'd make it baby blue.




LITERAL Fashion. When to listen and when to read the FINE PRINT.

Fashion trends come and go. 

Yet, Fashion No-no's, mis-wears, and "OMG WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!" last forever. So, here I have compiled the 6 top trends of 2011 and explained what they're all about and where they came from.  Anything can look good on a mannequin who belongs to no generation, country, or gender. Yet, for us, the children of Generation Y--I propose we read the fine print of fashion forward-ness before overstepping our rebellious ways.
We need to remember where we & our trending styles came from, in order to predict and inspire where they will travel to next...

1. Bloomers
Unless you are a character in a 19th Century Victorian-Era novel...you should not be wearing bloomers for what they were originally used for.  Big underwear will never be back in, but rather the term is now used to describe larger fitting shorts that have a bit of flair with either being puffed at the thighs or how they are cut at the waist.  Underpants are a must with whatever you wear. Take a hint of Lohan ladies.

2. The Boyfriend Watch
Please. Please. PLEASE--Do not go steal your boyfriend's watch. Not only will you shortly after be a thief but you will also be single. The boyfriend watch was nicknamed as such due to the wide set, thicker bands that these WOMEN watches entail. These watches are still styled for women but the thicker band was stolen from its fellow time-telling brother.

3. The Romper Suit
Initially brought into style society for children as the loose fitting one-sie, it was merchandised for young boys who loved to be on the go. Back in the day, of 19th Century France, the garmet was only allowed for men and sometimes infants. Yet, ever since 2006, designers have supported a revival worthwhile of investing in. The romper was the key "go-buy-now" item of Marc Jacobs' 2009 Spring Collection and is now a staple item for spring and summer wear.  Thank the children folks.

4. Poncho
The poncho was created by the ancient natives of the Andes and is now being sported by the ladies of the United States. I'm not sure how they would feel about Jessica Simpson being their biggest fan but I guess they're glad they have someone to carry on the tradition. Word to wise friends- let the girl who didn't know chicken of the sea was tuna wear the garment that belongs to native South American culture and turn it into flannel. For the rest of us? Let's have a little respect and wear the poncho in its original inspired colors/fabrics or please--do not wear one at all. No one wants to see your green polka dotted Snuggie that has one hole for your head.

5. Fedora
I will admit--I own a fedora. But, I do not wear it around campus as if to cry out to my college crew:

LOOK! I am your fellow hipster. Let us talk about music that we found out about before anyone else and then stop liking it the moment it becomes mainstream?!

No. No I do not. And neither did the men of the 1920's who brought the fedora to the forefront of American hats. The fedora was born as a hat for the all-American middle class guy just trying to reach that quintessential All American Dream. And then there's the present. Now the fedora represents the quintesential the All Un-American Attitude that has become the hipster trademark of Generation Y.
Tread carefully my fedora wearing friends-this hat is capable of pulling a one-eighty on ya!

6. Pajama Fashion
College friends rejoice. High school kids begin to cheer--Pajamas have finally made it into the fashion world as being garments acceptable to wear in the daylight. I always knew our pajama wearing ways would win out the Fashion Lords & Ladies. And now we have reached our highest success. Spring 2011 is all about pajama style-inspired pieces from pajama bottoms to lingerie cocktail dresses. This is going to revolutionize the American classroom attire nationwide. Just to rebel I expect to see everyone in their best slacks and a polo to match. The new grunge is Ralph Lauren friends.

Time will only tell what Spring 2011 will bring but I'm sure it will be filled with many moments of "OMG" and many head shakes of "Why would she think that's OK to wear?" But hopefully I've cut down on a few. Remember--even when you've committed a fashion no-no just rock it out like a champ. The worst thing you can wear is insecurity.
Confidence will always be in style--not to mention--incredibly fashion forward.




A Freak Creation

...Whether you're broke or evergreen
You're black, white, beige, chola descent
You're Lebanese, you're orient
Whether life's disabilities
Left you outcast, bullied or teased
Rejoice and love yourself today
'Cause baby, you were born this way....
Last night Lady Gaga told me to go after my dreams no matter what. Because sometimes, some people think that you'll never win a Grammy.  I cried when I heard this because there in that arena stood all of us together.  All of the kids who grew up knowing and feeling--that they were different. Normal would never be within our reach. As we grew we began to at look at normalcy with such disdain and boredom, that we look in the mirror daily and mutter "Thank God." 
For one night, the freaks had community.  
For f-o-u-r hours...the homeless had a home.


I'm the kind of person who was never much impressed with the cultural sensations of the day. I'm impressed by people who start movements, who make your blood rush in a vivacious swirl around your heart. Seeing Lady Gaga, along with her outfit picks made me look around at all the blessed people that surrounded me with understanding. Being someone who sits on the other end of the bench of society isn't easy. My wardrobe choices are sometimes looked at as 'weird' 'bizarre' 'ridiculous'--you name it...it's been said. And yet here I was, sitting a few rows down from someone who had strung lights all around his torso, arms, legs, and feet just so he could shine the brightest. It was truly a privilege to share air with my fellow freaks. Or at least that's what society would like us to be called. But being a freak has its perks.  Being a freak means you think. Not only do You consume but You produce. G uses freakdom the way it's supposed to be used...to create. She creates these costumes that remind us of what Fashion truly is all about-and yes that's with a capital F. 

Fashion is about taking your emotions, your thoughts, all the things you can't put into words and turning it into some materialized canvas that you happen to wear as a tee shirt.

After taking one look at a Lady Gaga outfit most people reply:

She looks like an alien. What a freak.

Yet, did you ever stop and think that's how she feels?

There are nights when I can't help but feel like an alien. My spaceship crashed and Lady Gaga's 'Born This Way' is my planet's national anthem. Here is KB... Utterly solo in a world where to make it big you have to submit yourself to reality show cruelties or be born in fame's gleaning green light. Yet, what is a young woman to do when she feels her heart beat faster than the rest of them. What do you do when you know you were meant for something brighter?  

What do you do when you're [born this way?]

Well... my loves....my frenemies--you work your flippin a** off.

Watching Lady Gaga perform, her outfits spilling out beautiful fabrics while screaming for us to [free our minds], I cried tears of pure inspiration. I wish I had a tiny bottle so that each time I could jar them up and remember--this is why I breathe. Purity is fleeting for us artists. We're left with jumbled minds and nights of over-analyzation. We're left with good work that's not good-cause it's not GREAT.

So here I sit about to challenge myself.  I want to ensure that I am living up to my fullest potential and to do so means to create...everyday. I dare you to join me. One day I will be the Editor-in-Chief of the number one Fashion magazine in the world. Whether it be Vogue or one that I'll create myself is left to be determined. One day I'll be the Gaga of Fashion and show the world that everyone deserves stylish self expression. I'll have my own stores, my own lines (or lines I helped with), and my children will one day look to me and say, "How did you do it Mom?"  

I'm sick of us outcasts having dead diaries for dreams. 

You too?

Take my challenge of creation.  Do not hide in the grey ambiguity that is normal

When I think of how we're all made and how we all came to be, the writer and fashion guru in my soul comes out to play. I imagine a God, a loving God, who writes a beautiful story of life...a life that is brought into reality by two people in love. He instills in you your own colored gem that sparkles the most when you are true to how it glitters. We are each others treasures. So let us be cherished...without prejudice or judgment. 

My core:

Wish me luck!




The Art of Being Sexified

Despite my 5' 3" genetic makeup (thank you Ireland for making your men tall and your women short) I love me a good pair of 'over-the-knee' high heeled boots.  Not only do they allow women to make a sexified transformation, but they have this semi-scandalous tinge of mystery that makes me want to pretend I'm cat woman...or Megan Fox.  Anyway these boots are fantabulus.

In the words of my idol Ms. Rachel Zoe.. I die.

But being sexified isn't easy. In fact, when you've got an adequate front and some good ole running legs...fitting your all-american physique into fashion finds is not as easy as it seems.  To all my girls who rock out the "I don't care" look and supposedly do not care-- I applaud you.  I work for that look.  I stylize my absence of fashion compassion.  I do not look good wet, but rather I probably look similar to my darling Oreo (my cat)-who when she gets wet, hisses and runs away.
 I adopt a similar demeanor. 

Nor do I wake up looking like Natalie Portman in "No Strings Attached." Nope. My bedmate is met with someone who  quite frankly resembles Coutney Love.

Being effortlessly sexy when you're not a skinny mcgee is rough times for the All-American Gal.  I mean my all time favorite boots aren't made for being bootylicious. For those of us who are vertically challenged, we are left to booties (which I still adore) and delicious Tory Burch flats.
I just want more.

I want a pair of 'over-the-knee' boots that don't make me look like a 
munchkin hooker who just escaped from Oz.  

After all, just cause I'm short doesn't mean I can't be sexy.

So, I'm here to share my short yet stylish discovery with you all.  The key to wearing a pair of 'over-the-knees' without looking like you want to be thrown over somebody's knee --is outfit balance.  Outfit balance is what I call whipping out the belt to break up an oversized tunic or cocktail dress.  Whether you go for the necklace, belt, boots, or tucked in tanks...outfit balance is the enabler to our tiny yet true taste in style.  You too can saunter down the sidewalks in a pair of 'over-the-knees'-- you just need to balance out your bod.
Here is a prime example of doing just this.  This short dress enables our Fashionista the leg exposure to show off her boot choice, while maintaining her sexified status.  Not a dress girl?  That's ok, just tuck in your blouse or tank into a high-waisted pair of pants or shorts to allow a shortened torso and elongated legs.

You don't need to look good wet or wake up looking like Natalie Portman, the everyday girl has it in her to be the sexy silhouette she sees on the billboards--just a matter of 'know-how.'

The All-American Gal has a sexiness that is all her own--and its called a good pair of running legs and something for you to watch while we walk away.  Sexy is being real, whether or not you're in 'over-the-knee' boots or rockin the "I don't care" look.  And btw--we all know you care.

It's ok though--we'll keep your secret.



When Blue Jeans Aren't Blue...

Hey y'all!

Sorry this entry was a long time coming. I've had so many ideas bouncing around in my head and just when I'd sit down to write--the notorious facebook or tumblr took hold. Darn you Mark Zuckerberg.  But for this entry I'd like to visit a place we all look back on as childhood, or rather the age of Spice Girls and mattress-made castles. This entry goes out to the class of 2011.  We did it friends... I mean basically.

For most of us, dreaming was how we thought of the future.  After all, you can't predict it so why not look outside your window and hope that all the stars align?  Well here we are, three months away from leaving the place that has become our second home--we're about to graduate college.  Two months away from picking out graduation dresses and choosing the heels that we'll use to walk into our future.  The moment we walk off that stage, diploma in hand, we're free. And you know what's so scary about freedom?  Deciding what to do with it.

Ever since December I've commenced the job search to end up job searches.  I've typed till my fingertips chaffed and my resume and cover letter are exactly where I'd like them to be.  Just like the rest of you guys, this dream-turned-reality is pretty surreal.  I mean, wasn't it just yesterday that we were going through Formal Recruitment, hitting up our first Frat Party (what an experience that was) and making the friends that are gonna be around long after we delete the questionable albums on facebook?  It was yesterday sort of, because we've really just woken up from this dream that is college.  Now we're all sitting upright in our beds, checking the time and making sure we still have enough to get that job, secure that interview, and still keep up with the classes we're enrolled in.

But I think it's this crazy ridiculousness that's part of the journey.  We're about to fly off towards different skies, fabulously adorned in the latest and greatest flight gear.  Don't feel alone when you get tired of staying afloat--we're all going to make it. We will all reach the place that we envisioned in the stars from back in our high school dreams.   It's going to feel overwhelming and we're all going to feel like everything is changing too fast.  Just like fashion, life is on constant fast forward.  It's always about what's next and whose doing what.  But look at it this way...we're all just a pair of blue jeans on the shelf.  We are the perfect fit for something--just a matter of finding out exactly what that is.  Sure, some of us are a little worn, ripped and faded.  But we're also bedazzled, flexible, and prepared for anything that comes with the day ahead.  If blue jeans are still blue, then we too can withstand this test of time.  We too can prove our timelessness and necessity to the big world in front of us. 

We've woken up from the dream and the world is waving hello from across the El stop.  Now wave back and flash that sparkling smile.  You've got this, cause just like fashion, your life is always changing for the better.  This is the next big thing...your life after college




Show-Stopping Style Presented by STYLEMAX

For those of you who have had it rough since the debut of 2011, there is hope that this year can and will be sprinkling down good karma upon you.  I'm not sure what we did right, but the Fashion Lords & Ladies have given us a Fashion year to remember.  This past weekend was the 2011 Summer & Fall Preview Style Max here in Chicago-->
From Saturday through Monday I was blissfully surrounded by clothes, helping guide & advise boutique buyers across the nation on what brands to bring into their stores.  Since this was my first Style Max, I learned that wholesale selling is a whole world of its own.  This my friends is fashion on a whole new level.  To begin, the Showrooms are the middle man between brands/designers and the buyers.  We take on a brand and agree to 'show' it. Whether it be private appointments or conventions such as Style Max, Showrooms display the best of the best to potential buyers so that they can sell the latest fashion trends to their loyal clients.  Below are three examples of how it looks inside the world of STYLE MAX...
Above is Decadence Showroom, which is the one I worked for this weekend.  In this photo we are displaying the brand Hazel on the left and KLd. on the right.  Decadence also carries my two favs, Bobi (think American Apparel) and L.A. based brand 213 designed by Michelle Kim.
Next we have another showroom and as you can see, each showroom has its own distinct look.  Why?  Because it's important that the look of the showroom reflects the brands it carries.  For example, this showroom is known for bringing in modern pieces with very New York-based inspirations.  Hence the black, no fuse furniture paired with a straightforward displays of 2-0-1-1 future fashions.
Basically this is what goes down. Buyers stop by and ask to see their favorite lines, or rather the lines that are selling off the shelves at their stores.  They sit down at one of these desks, while we, the sales representatives (showroom employees) start from the 'Immediates' through the end (normally may or july) of a brand's samples.  The clothes are grouped up in collections, so we grid out the collections by their shipping dates and let the buyers pick and choose what they like.  Usually each article of clothing comes in a 'prepack' which is 2-2-2 for sizes Small, Medium, and Large. Sometimes, if the showroom has a good relationship with the brand rep, adjustments to this can be made.  As we pick out the favs of our buyers, we then start the process of a 'write up' which is us literally writing up their inventory order.  As we do this, we are making sure to write in the beginning shipping date to the end (which is the article of clothing's delete).  Buyers make sure they take photos of each of their purchases to ensure that they do not go around buying the same prints or too many sundresses.  After all, you can only have so many floral inspirations on a shelf.  You're selling clothes, not garden advertisements.

*Hint to my trend forecasters...DRESSES are having a comeback that puts B. Spears in the shadows*

For those of you who don't know... I am a jean fanatic.  My dream is to own 365 pairs of jeans so that I can have one year where everyday I walk the city sidewalks in a new, fresh pair of denim delights.  At Style Max I met the brand 1921 who just came out with a new revolution of denim--YOGA JEANS.  Not jeggings my friends but jeans that have the same fit of real jeans, 
but the comfort and lounging joy of yogies.  
Like I said, 2011 is going to rock.  For my accessories addicts, I've got a few surprises for you too! Big this year--belts and scarves.  Tie your style up with some of these fun and fashionable finds.

And the fashion doesn't stop there!  For the baby rocker in all of us (you can't say you never dreamt of singing your heart out on stage) STUDDED everythings, from leather bracelets to buckled sensations-- MORE is BETTER.  Feast your eyes on the belts and bracelets that are sparkling with metallic magic.
Last but not least...I couldn't resist this new piece which has obviously been made with a nod towards our Lady G.
Pretty much my fashion fantasy brought to life. I should call them up and ask if they can make this into a dress! Style Max is more than just a convention of buying and selling, it's a three day movie trailer of show-stopping style.  So look towards Spring with a bigger smile than usual--nothing but greatness is coming to a store near you soon!