Which came first: the Birkenstock of the Teva? The answer doesn’t actually matter because they are both having fashion reincarnations this spring… much to the joy of some and chagrin of others. While the Birkenstock reemergence has already been happening on the low for quite some time now, the other favored sandal of the 90’s complete with velcro straps and thick flat soles has just recently filled high end department stores’ and designer boutiques’ shelves. Brands from Marni to Rebecca Minkoff have embraced and reinvented the functional over fashionable shoe with metallic leather, studs, and colorful embellishments. While they sure will make traipsing through the city a lot less painful for your feet, I’m not sure about the effect they’ll have on our eyes.
We love spring. We love dresses. We love spring dresses. Since you’re all up to date on spring’s biggest fashion and beauty trends, I figured we’d take it one step further by rounding up some of spring’s most stylish frocks that fell into each trend. Honestly, it was almost too easy.
Mixing patterns is tough enough, but would one dare to mix plaid on plaid on plaid? I would. Especially since I’ve begun to run out of options in my suitcase and I’ve either gotten incredibly creative or undeniably delusional. Perhaps both.
I can’t count the number of times in the last month when my father has asked, “That’s what you’re wearing?” Well, yes, dad, it is. It’s more evident than ever that my father raised two wild wolves as sons and I had the pleasure of being pampered by my very feminine mother. He thought I was kidding when I told him a pedicure was a near emergency yesterday and pretty much laughed in my face when I told him I was going to need to go shopping for an evening specific outfit for New Year’s Eve. He’s a dude’s dude and I’m slowly breaking him back into what it means to have a woman around. Poor guy.
Needless to say, he gets a kick out of being my personal paparazzi and has been nothing less than accommodating. I had originally scouted a location to shoot close to his house where the leaves had just begun to fall in the most magnificent display of ombre glory. The deepest shades of red to the warmest yellow, it was a Pantone wet dream. However, I waited a day or two before scheduling the shoot and by the time we headed out, someone with a leafblower and disdain for mother nature had ruined my set. A true lesson that there is no time like the present. Being a good sport, Dick, Smitty, and I hopped in the car to look for new location inspiration. Just as we were about to call it a day- and a loss- we passed the Spreckels Post Office which is nestled next to the Spreckels Emporium emblazoned with an old fashioned Coca Cola ad. It’s like stepping back in time. I asked Dick to stop and we proceeded to shoot and see what we came up with…
hat: H&M, scarf: PerryEllis (similar here), flannel shirt: Wrangler (similar here), t-shirt: American Apparel, slip: (similar here), tights: who knows? (similar here), boots: Dolce Vita, bag: Amrita Singh, jacket: Andrew Marc (similar here)
And yes, dad, my tights are shredded, but that’s life. You’ve gotta embrace the snags.
I always argue that I live in the West Village, though my address teeters terribly close to the streets that fill with drunken girls in stilettos and inappropriately and unseasonably short bejeweled bandage dresses and the men who love them on the weekends. Then one day, I noticed the banner (conveniently sponsored by my building’s management company) affixed to the lamppost on my corner welcoming all to the trendy Meatpacking District. “Live Well!” it decrees. If you mean paying six dollars for a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips at the corner deli and navigating through fanny pack clad Midwestern tourists while avoiding the stench of street carts, then, why yes, you can live very well in this neighborhood.
…And then I received a packet in my mailbox. It was officially welcoming me to the Meatpacking District complete with a Hookup Card. I can’t. And yet, I do. When I first came to New York before my senior year of college, the Meatpacking District was exactly what its name suggests. There was meat on the ground and it smelled and it was not yet infiltrated with Lulu Lemon and the stroller pushing mothers who wear it. It was gritty and scary and fun. It was the old New York. But as much as I complain about it, I love where I live… so long as I always walk south when exiting my building, unless heading to Sephora or Soho House. I’m glad I’ve lived here long enough to know the difference and to be able to bitch about it.
It’s a rare occasion that I make it above 14th Street. Leaving downtown at times feels like leaving the country. Well, my country. I’m not actually a neighborhood snob (okay, maybe), but for me, there’s not much reason for me to head uptown. I used to go for the sole purpose of re-blonding, but then my hairstylist left the country… and I stopped coloring my hair. Some even say your ears may pop when you cross 42nd Street. Whatever the case may be, I don’t make it up to the Upper West Side or the park very often.
I can’t decide if I gave up on Central Park after I realized there were about 3cm of park where Smitty was actually allowed to be or that time we got pelted by a football courtesy of a group of guys trying to catch our attention. Speaking of which, a guy once asked me on a date to Central Park. I never called him back. Even my best friends have a tough time coercing me to the Upper West Side. Given enough wine, I’ve found myself sleeping on their couch in the morning, pleased with myself for having passed out before the pizza arrived. So, when my newly Americanized pal, suggested we head uptown and check out the park, I felt I had to oblige. I suffered through a steamy subway ride and was soon reminded what a wonderful oasis we have in our otherwise concrete desert.