For me, getting a manicure (and a pedicure) is as much about taking care of my brain as taking care of my hands. I've been going to the same nail place for at least five years- Pastels on 2nd Avenue and 12th Street- though I don't feel guilty if I occasionally stray.
Manicures are definitely a luxury. They are often the first thing to go when I am feeling broke. But they are also an immediate remedy when I am feeling very broke. Nice hands simply make me feel nice.
For a long time, I stuck with the nudes- I was a sheep, and I had been properly inoculated against anything so bold as a color. Pink was cheesy! Never mention blue or green! The only colors close to acceptable were the occasional classic red or rich "vamp." (If Herr Karl approved who are we to disobey?) And I generally hid those on my toes.
But in the past couple of years, thanks to Karl, and LiLo and a host of other flashy types, nail color has become more then variations on Ballet Slipper. It's become rich purple, and jade, and endless variations of colors so dark they all look black. Now I approach the color rack with the same excitement I entered old fashioned candy stores as a child, and as I do enter cheese shops as an adult. "Pick a color?" is right up there with "would you like to taste this?" I thrill to hear it and I want to sample it all.
Nothing is out of bounds! Cantaloupe is delicious in the summer! Shop Til I Drop makes no sense, but I love the pinkness of it! And the endless variations of red are enough to make an apple farmer cry. With all the rich and lovely choices, how is it that now, after a prolonged manicure drought, I find myself with nails the color of essentially, mildewed tile grout? And further- liking it?
The specific color is "Mink Muffs" by beloved Essie. The name is vaguely dirty, and I feel a shred of embarrassment writing it down. I was shown the new spring colors, with names like "Tart Deco" (a sweet Miami orangey-pink). And yet my midwinter mind went straight back to the nineties and brown. I even tried to switch colors mid-mani. "What was I thinking with this dullness?" I wondered. My technician talked me out of it. "This is a good color. Nice." She said. Ok. Why not?
And dear reader, three days later, I love it still! There is no explanation except that my nails, while not nude or beige or off white, are instead darkly colorless. They are speaking in a normal everyday voice, instead of yelling to be seen, or simpering quietly. Or a better analogy- they are not hot, like red, nor cool like black. They are an even-keeled room temperature, and I like it that way. They are, to quote the fairy tale, just right.
I think a lot of times people think that "fashion people" are sort of too cool for school, snotty or just plain old mean. But the best of them are people with vision, who are completely unafraid to be who they are, have strong opinions, and love what they love. The best example I can think of is Grace Coddington, the shy, brilliant creative director of American Vogue. Here she is on the Martha Stewart Show dedicated to cats. Bliss!
See also this adorable take off on the lovely, but totally played blog "The Sartorialist", "The Catorialist":
See also this adorable take off on the lovely, but totally played blog "The Sartorialist", "The Catorialist":
So it's getting down to the wire, and you still have those small last minute gifts to get. I totally know the feeling. I've been there. Yesterday.
It's best to have a game plan, of course. You don't want to get stuck spending a fortune on these little tid-bit-gifts. Don't be afraid to buy a lot of small things in multiples. Here are a couple of last minute ideas I had, that maybe you will find useful.
1) Chocolate bars- Whenever I unwrap a chocolate bar, I get that wonderful thrill of discovery and joy. I think it's perfecty captured in the original movie version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, when Charlie gleefully opens his birthday bar. I, too, am always looking for my golden ticket, but that is another story. These days chocolate is the new coffee, and you can find it in every which way, from country of origin (terroir is tres francais,), mixed with everything from your run of the mill nuts to bacon, to percentage of cocoa to mixers (the darker, the bitterer.) I'd go for a mix of fun, pretty wrappers and flavors. And how luxurious to have many to choose from! At a small dinner party I was at recently we had a great time passing them around tasting them. What could be more fun? Dean and DeLuca has a lovely assortment, and you can get six of their in house bars for 12$.
2) A tin of tea- It doesn't have to be tea, but I know tea well, so I feel like I can speak to it. No tea drinker would spend 20$ on a box tea for themselves. But I bet most tea drinkers would love it as a gift. I am speaking of Mariage Freres, that great old French company. I prefer the bags, but the tins look neater. French Breakfast is a lovely flavor, soft and smooth with overtones of chocolate.
3) M.A.C Dazzleglass lip gloss- Now, here is a gift that the 12-year-old girl in us can appreciate. For my money, there are few pleasures as simple as opening a new lip gloss, especially something bright, and outrageously pink. The addition of glitter makes it that much better. I am not generally the glittery sort, but you must be a Scrooge-y sort if this wouldn't at least make you smile. Buy for your sillier, more whimsical friends. The practical types might not appreciate it.
4) Sharps Kid Glove Shave Gel- This stuff gives the smoothest, nicest shave you can imagine. The men in your life will wonder what they ever did before they tried it. The women (or other men) in their lives will sneak it relentlessly (I swear it makes my legs look thinner!). Oh, and it smells so so so good! Also, it apparently soothes bug bites, so there's that too...
5) Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid on Blu Ray- Because who doesn't love Paul Newman? Or Robert Redford? Now in Hi-Def! Your welcome.
"Sugar, Sugar. Ohhhh honey, honey. You are my candy girl. And you've got me wanting you..."
Do you love that song? Or hate it? I have mixed emotions about it. Sometimes I can't stand it, but other times I need to hear it- like scratching an itch. Also it is by the Archies. I loved Archie comics when I was little. Although not as much as my sister, who themed her Bat Mitzvah around the Riverdale Crew (no, I am not kidding. Her sign-in board was Jughead!).
I dreamed high school would be like high school in an Archie comic- full of dances, and sweet boys with jalopies (is that how you would spell the plural of jalopy?). I was definitely more a Veronica than a Betty though. I think. Maybe not as mean as Veronica, but I liked her rich girl style better. Veronica always seemed to have more fun too. I did actually go to high school in Riverdale, funnily enough. Though it was not nearly as fun as I imagine high school was in Archie's Riverdale.
Which leads me to red patent leather heels. These shoes actually look like shoes from an Archie comic, don't they? The round toe gives them kind of a vintage feel. The color is a true candy-apple red- not for the faint of heart! They give me a bit of a sugar headache- they are so shiny! They almost look sticky.
These probably date from about 2002-2003. They are from my High Marc by Marc Jacobs period. Everything he made at that time felt like it should belong to me- and fit like it should too. Alas, I think I am not girlie enough anymore.
I haven't worn them in years, although I am fond of them, and I wore them whenever I could for a while. They were perfect for peeking out from under flared jeans. I bet they would do alright with a pair of skinny jeans too- for a sort of 50's look. If I roll the jeans up a bit- well- how Veronica! All I need is a neck scarf. (Yeah... no.) I am also thinking textured grey tights would pair well (isn't it funny to say "pair well" in regards to clothing? I see it all the time, but "pairing well" is such a wine term. "These shoes pair well with grey tights, just as a Barolo pairs well with a good steak." But I digress, as usual.)
I'm gonna make your life so sweet... hey, hey hey... Lofty promises from a pair of shoes.
This is the window at the James Perse store on Bleecker Street. If you can't make it out, it reads "Live Simply. Give More. Expect Less." Hmmmm.
Now, don't get me wrong- I love James Perse. If I could afford it, I would own about a hundred pairs of those pajama bottoms. But at 90$ a pop, they are a little rich for my blood. Isn't there something a tad grating about a message exhorting people to selflessness being posted in the window of a store that sells very expensive versions of the most basic items of clothing? It's not the message I object to, I guess. It's the messenger.
Today is the first truly cold day of the season. And since it's been requested, I thought I would put aside shoes for a moment, and post my recipe for turkey chili. It's such a warming dish on a bitter day.
This was one of the first things I ever learned to make well. Full of big flavors, I would say this chili is the very opposite of sophisticated, and it's wonderful for it. It is also very easy, but that is because I will confess to using some shortcuts. When I began figuring this recipe out, I used beef, and even bison. But now we like to limit our red meat, and I think the richness of ground turkey goes will with the smokey chipotles. Also, I make it in a slow cooker. It's not necessary, but it's easy, if you have one. If you don't, you can simmer on the stove for a while- 30 minutes or so. It will certainly taste better the next day, but it will definitely be delicious tonight.
Ingredients:
1 lb ground turkey (I like a mix of dark and light meat)
1 packet taco/chili flavoring (in the Mexican aisle at the supermarket. I like Bearitos brand.)
1 small onion chopped
1 carrot chopped
1 large can diced tomatoes (spend the extra dollar on the San Marzanos.)
1-2 handfuls frozen corn
2-3 chipotle peppers, from the can, chopped
2-3 spoonfuls of chipotle sauce (from the can the chipotles come in)
Salt and pepper to taste
Heat up a pan large enough for the turkey. When it's hot, but not smoking, add the turkey, and turn it down to medium. (If it's a sticky pan, add a little olive oil first- just a little.) Brown the turkey, breaking apart the ground meat with a wooden spoon. This step always confused me, but the more you break it up, the more the meat absorbs the sauce. So I've learned. (If you are crushed for time you can skip the browning step, but I think it really adds a little je ne sais quoi).
When the meat is browned (it will be mostly cooked,) set it aside, and drain the water from the pan. (If you are not using turkey, you can keep some of the nice beef fat for the next step. If you are using turkey, add a little more oil.) Add the chopped onion, and cook until soft.
Put the onion and the turkey in the bowl of the slow cooker. Season with salt and a little pepper. Add the chopped carrots, the chili mix, the corn, and the chipotles. Add the tomatoes and then a little of the chipotle sauce. Let cook on low for at least 4 hours. Stir, taste, and adjust seasonings- usually I add a bit of salt here or some more chipotle sauce. (This is a great thing to make in the morning, and come home to at the end of a long cold workday. And it takes about fifteen minutes.) If you are using a stove top, put all the ingredients into a deep saucepan, get to a simmer, turn down the heat, and let cook for 30 or so minutes, stirring occasionally. It'll smell done. Trust me.
Serve in bowls with spoons, and sour cream, cheese, chopped onion, cilantro, beans, whatever else you like. Sometimes I throw a can of beans into the chili itself, sometimes I serve with refried beans on the side.
Serves 4 (or 2 with lots of leftovers.)
These are not what you'd generally think of as dancing shoes, are they?
Allow me a quick memory. When I was about six, someone bought me an umbrella that I absolutely adored. It had pink ribs and trim and was made of thick clear vinyl. A blond Cabbage Patch Kid was painted on the side, dressed in rain gear. Above her braided, behatted head were the words "Fowl Weather Friend."
Oh, how my mother hated that umbrella! I was just learning to read, and as much as I loved words even then, I didn't understand her objections. Then, as now, when my mother objects to something it is always strenuous and repetitive. Every time it rained, I ran to the closet, eager to take out my cherished umbrella, and every time she would snarl about how much she hated that god-damned piece of garbage.
"Who uses the word "foul" on something meant for a child!? And SPELLS it WRONG? It doesn't MEAN anything! Is it raining CHICKENS? It's chicken shit, is what it is..." I didn't care. I looked forward to the "fowl" weather, because it meant I got to carry that umbrella, so shiny, and pink, and wonderful. And I have generally been confused by "fowl" and "foul" ever since.
Now let's get to the happy refrain. These boots, Hunters, (no surprise, I'm sure, given my acute case of anglophilia), are definitely foul weather friends. In the same way that I loved the rain when I was six, these make me love the rain twenty-five years later.
They make me feel like Gene Kelly, twirling my umbrella, as I stomp with glee through the deepest nastiest New Yorkiest puddles (always avoiding the neon green ones, which I am certain are toxic and would eat right through my royally approved rubber.) The boots began developing that strange yellow patina soon after I got them, and I once tried to wash it off. Now I understand that they are meant to look like that- like ripe grapes, and I like it. I wear them with my Barbour jacket, and whistle, dancing, and singing in the rain.
I wish I had some sort of marvelous story of discovery about these- I feel like they deserve it. But frankly, I can't recall for the life of me where or when I got them. I am fairly sure they are vintage, and so likely date back to the Rivington Street Days. But getting more specific then that is like trying to remember the moment you first met your oldest friend. Was it a birthday party in the third grade? Or Girl Scouts? It's all lost to the mists. But dependability is not always romantic, nor should it be.
One thing I am certain of, is that when I found them I most certainly did NOT cry "Eureka!". I have a feeling they were not expensive, and I was drawn to pick them up by their bright, cheerful color. And, I probably took them home, and forgot them for a while. But this pair has become one of my best worn pairs of shoes.
Now, I don't particularly love pink, but these are a lovely, rich near-fuschia. I like to call them "Barbie" pink. And strangely, like the doll, they go with a lot more then you might think- perhaps because I wear a lot of black and grey. The pink is a nice pop against a neutral. But I've even worn them with a red top and a white pencil skirt, (daring in my own mind.)
They are also a great height. That flattering little kitten of a heel gives my legs a nice needed hit of length, without making me feel as if I might topple over at any time. I can, and do, run around all over the place in them- as you can see in the wear at the toe and the heel, and by the crackle in the leather. (They are probably on their third heel-cap.) The toe area is lovely, wide and flat, yet flattering, and the curve along the side is simply pretty.
I've worn them mostly in the summer, in the evening, to parties and dinners, and even to the movies. I've definitely also slipped them on during the day, just because they cheer me up. I'm always trying to wear them in the winter, but the thin sole means cold feet. Sometimes I do it anyway. They are perfect with jeans, skinny ankle'd or flared, black tights or bare legs. Whenever I despair of having the right thing to wear, these strange, pink pumps (are they even pumps?) set me back on the path to style happiness. They are one of a number of pairs I try on with an outfit I am undecided upon- to see if I can make some idea I had work. Often as not they are the ones that save me.
People often compliment me on them, which feels like someone telling you your pet is the cutest- you beam with pleasure at something you had almost nothing to do with. Your own good sense is not revealed until later, when the fluffy kitten grows up into a purry-sweet cat.
Here little shoes. Heeerrrreee sweet little shoe-y shoes. Come out, please? Psssss. Look. I've got a little treat for you...see these nice feet? They aren't going to hurt you, I promise....
In every woman's closet, that is- any woman who has more then the basic six pairs of shoes (daily work shoes- whether they are loafers, pumps or sneakers- exercise shoes, rain boots, flip-flops, sandals and the one pair she wears to whatever fancy occasion arises)- there are shoes that fall by the wayside. It is inevitable, is it not? (As for the six-shoed woman, we can not imagine that many exist. If they do, they are irritatingly practical, and not for us anyway, are they?)
Sometimes we set forth with the clearest shoe objective in our heads. Today we will get a pair of black boots, of the sort we have been yearning for, sharp and equestrian, or a pair of Uggs, because our feet are tired of being jealous and cold, even though our minds are firmly set against the idea.
At other times, we are impulsive. We are in France or Montauk or Tulum, and there, it seems charming to buy those (absurdly) overpriced espadrilles that will fall apart at the sight of water. No matter- for a week they were perfect- the shoe version of a postcard, or a sunburn.
Generally, we fall someplace between the two. We are poking around on a bright Saturday, wherever we live, and we come across something interesting, or on sale, or both. Sometimes it is something we realize, upon seeing, that we desperately need. But often, it is a pair of shoes we not only don't need, but we will probably almost never wear. We never know it at the time- we rush home, happy with our purchase, only to realize a point in the near future that nothing, and I mean NOTHING, in our clothes closet can be worn with such strange babies.
And then, after an initial period of trying them on with everything, we forget we bought them at all. Some of you will scoff, and say that you have returned yours, or sold them on Ebay, but I am sure, if you were to clean out your closet at this moment, there in the back, some place, would be a pair of shoes you never wear. I am particularly disgraceful in this regard, for I have many shoes I never wear.
May I present this particular example?
Aren't they charming, with their snub toes? And they have a small sweet heel, like the kind of YSL pump Catherine Deneuve wears in Belle De Jour. The tweed is nice- and totally in line with my personally rather preppy-edgy style. I like the brown suede trim at the edge, and the deer themselves are wacky in a fun, plastic way. I dislike the bow, but I haven't the heart or time to cut it off.
And, they are a tad big. Worst of all, they are fakers. That's right! For the first hour, they are disarmingly comfortable. And then they begin to rub and scrap, and blisters erupt in the strangest of places. They also look strange with jeans, and none of my current crop of black dresses go with them.They are too twee for me, I think. So I have forgotten them. For four years, they have crouched and cowered in the back of my closet, gazing at me with plastic eyed reproach, and so about once a year, I take them out for a day, only to relegate them almost immediately back to the deepest, darkest recesses of the shoe rack.
In every woman's closet, that is- any woman who has more then the basic six pairs of shoes (daily work shoes- whether they are loafers, pumps or sneakers- exercise shoes, rain boots, flip-flops, sandals and the one pair she wears to whatever fancy occasion arises)- there are shoes that fall by the wayside. It is inevitable, is it not? (As for the six-shoed woman, we can not imagine that many exist. If they do, they are irritatingly practical, and not for us anyway, are they?)
Sometimes we set forth with the clearest shoe objective in our heads. Today we will get a pair of black boots, of the sort we have been yearning for, sharp and equestrian, or a pair of Uggs, because our feet are tired of being jealous and cold, even though our minds are firmly set against the idea.
At other times, we are impulsive. We are in France or Montauk or Tulum, and there, it seems charming to buy those (absurdly) overpriced espadrilles that will fall apart at the sight of water. No matter- for a week they were perfect- the shoe version of a postcard, or a sunburn.
Generally, we fall someplace between the two. We are poking around on a bright Saturday, wherever we live, and we come across something interesting, or on sale, or both. Sometimes it is something we realize, upon seeing, that we desperately need. But often, it is a pair of shoes we not only don't need, but we will probably almost never wear. We never know it at the time- we rush home, happy with our purchase, only to realize a point in the near future that nothing, and I mean NOTHING, in our clothes closet can be worn with such strange babies.
And then, after an initial period of trying them on with everything, we forget we bought them at all. Some of you will scoff, and say that you have returned yours, or sold them on Ebay, but I am sure, if you were to clean out your closet at this moment, there in the back, some place, would be a pair of shoes you never wear. I am particularly disgraceful in this regard, for I have many shoes I never wear.
May I present this particular example?
Aren't they charming, with their snub toes? And they have a small sweet heel, like the kind of YSL pump Catherine Deneuve wears in Belle De Jour. The tweed is nice- and totally in line with my personally rather preppy-edgy style. I like the brown suede trim at the edge, and the deer themselves are wacky in a fun, plastic way. I dislike the bow, but I haven't the heart or time to cut it off.
And, they are a tad big. Worst of all, they are fakers. That's right! For the first hour, they are disarmingly comfortable. And then they begin to rub and scrap, and blisters erupt in the strangest of places. They also look strange with jeans, and none of my current crop of black dresses go with them.They are too twee for me, I think. So I have forgotten them. For four years, they have crouched and cowered in the back of my closet, gazing at me with plastic eyed reproach, and so about once a year, I take them out for a day, only to relegate them almost immediately back to the deepest, darkest recesses of the shoe rack.
We all have dreams about the way we want things to be. Whether it's our
careers, our love lives, or yes, even our shoes. Maybe it's not JUST
shoes, but our whole appearance, of which shoes are part and parcel.
And that is as important as any other dream, is it not? Just as we want
to work our best, and love our best, we should also often strive to
look our best, for our better inside feelings, if nothing else. (Just
today I went to the dentist in a long, black, leather-belted cashmere dress coat, for no other reason that
it is not nice out, going to the dentist is as mundane as it gets, and
the coat was a nice balm for my soul.)
I had a dream about a pair of shoes once, a fantasy almost. I always think a fantasy is a dream that you really want to come true but probably never will. When a fantasy comes to life, it's magic. (Well, hopefully. Sometimes I imagine a fantasy come true could be a let down, if not an all out disaster. But that is hardly the point here...)
The shoe of my dream was black, and I guess what one might call a sort of sandal. The heel was very high, but not skinny. Indeed, the heel was thick, but not TOO thick- there was no hint of clunkiness in my mind's eye. There was a small bit of detail, but nothing outrageous- a chaste silver buckle at the side perhaps. The shoes were both serious and fun, a difficult thing to pull off. They were the sort of shoes that a girl could actually traipse around in day or night, if one ever felt like traipsing. I, for one, often hope that I am the sort that could pull off traipsing. In these phantasmorgial shoes, I was indeed a traipser, but certainly not a prancer. (Prancing, I think, is for the sort of ladies who claim to have slept with Tiger Woods.)
At any rate, during the period where the dream of this particular shoe was happening on a recurring basis, I was flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine- most likely Vogue, most likely at an airport, though I can't recall- and I spotted my actual fantasy shoes in an ad. If you've ever read any of my shoe blog before, you can probably bet it was a Prada ad, of course. It was. I was pleased to realized that the shoes even existed, to be honest. Their presence in the world was a comfort- both to know that my at-that-moment perfect shoes were out there, and that someone had thought to design them, much less Miuccia herself. I stared for a moment, and flipped on, to read Jeffrey Steingarten probably.
Months later, at the Jefferey sale, I was confronted with the reality of them. There they were! And they were just as perfect in real life, as in the dream and in the ad. The leather was even the right kind of soft. It felt ordained. Of course I had to get them! They were my fantasy shoes! And, honestly, they are still one of my favorite pairs of shoes. I wear them every chance I get- not daily, no, but biweekly in the summer, definitely. I yearn to wear them with tights in the winter. And they are comfortable as heels that high can be! Finding them again in the spring is always a joy and a relief, like having coffee with an old friend you don't get to see often. The initial happiness of seeing them in person, is followed by relief that you still like each other, and indeed, enjoy each others company.
But my fantasy has moved on, to a sort of ankle boot, with a platform, in grey suede. I thought I saw them once, in real life, but I think it might have been in a dream.
I had a dream about a pair of shoes once, a fantasy almost. I always think a fantasy is a dream that you really want to come true but probably never will. When a fantasy comes to life, it's magic. (Well, hopefully. Sometimes I imagine a fantasy come true could be a let down, if not an all out disaster. But that is hardly the point here...)
The shoe of my dream was black, and I guess what one might call a sort of sandal. The heel was very high, but not skinny. Indeed, the heel was thick, but not TOO thick- there was no hint of clunkiness in my mind's eye. There was a small bit of detail, but nothing outrageous- a chaste silver buckle at the side perhaps. The shoes were both serious and fun, a difficult thing to pull off. They were the sort of shoes that a girl could actually traipse around in day or night, if one ever felt like traipsing. I, for one, often hope that I am the sort that could pull off traipsing. In these phantasmorgial shoes, I was indeed a traipser, but certainly not a prancer. (Prancing, I think, is for the sort of ladies who claim to have slept with Tiger Woods.)
At any rate, during the period where the dream of this particular shoe was happening on a recurring basis, I was flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine- most likely Vogue, most likely at an airport, though I can't recall- and I spotted my actual fantasy shoes in an ad. If you've ever read any of my shoe blog before, you can probably bet it was a Prada ad, of course. It was. I was pleased to realized that the shoes even existed, to be honest. Their presence in the world was a comfort- both to know that my at-that-moment perfect shoes were out there, and that someone had thought to design them, much less Miuccia herself. I stared for a moment, and flipped on, to read Jeffrey Steingarten probably.
Months later, at the Jefferey sale, I was confronted with the reality of them. There they were! And they were just as perfect in real life, as in the dream and in the ad. The leather was even the right kind of soft. It felt ordained. Of course I had to get them! They were my fantasy shoes! And, honestly, they are still one of my favorite pairs of shoes. I wear them every chance I get- not daily, no, but biweekly in the summer, definitely. I yearn to wear them with tights in the winter. And they are comfortable as heels that high can be! Finding them again in the spring is always a joy and a relief, like having coffee with an old friend you don't get to see often. The initial happiness of seeing them in person, is followed by relief that you still like each other, and indeed, enjoy each others company.
But my fantasy has moved on, to a sort of ankle boot, with a platform, in grey suede. I thought I saw them once, in real life, but I think it might have been in a dream.
