I Ain't No Faux

It's official: fall is upon us and the forecast calls for an abundance of faux fur.

Thanks to Celebrity Stylist Rachel Zoe and her new QVC line, fashionistas and starlets everywhere are sporting her $80 faux fur vest from the sold-out-in-ten-minutes Rachel Zoe collection. Those who weren't quick enough with their digits have been reduced to bidding furiously on Ebay to own one at three times the price.

I've always been an admirer of faux fur and have been cuddling up in fuzzy acrylic/polyester threads since the Sadie Hawkins dance in third grade. Back in '02 I attended the "Vanilla Sky" premiere clad in my favorite coat at the time: a faux fur, caramel colored, box-cut waist coat from Bebe. At some point during the after party, I told Cameron Crowe how badly I wanted to work for his production company, Vinyl Films. He told me to send a letter to the office and sign it "the girl with the great coat." I never did get to work for Vinyl but the fact that I was complimented by one of my favorite Directors for my sense of style makes up for not having that resume credit.

One scorching summer day in July, I was flipping through a Saks fall catalog and came across a vest that screamed at me from the glossy pages. It said, "pick me and not the $700 lambskin Vince vest." I hear you, Mr. Vest. I tore that noisy ad out and put it up on my bulletin board 'til I could actually rationalize spending $318 of my hard earned paper on a vest. That didn't take very long. I headed to Saks in Bev Hills several days later and all was right in my closet for fall '09.

I must say, my Joie faux fur vest has been getting a lot of heat lately. Everytime I wear it, someone either compliments me or tells me I look like a woolie mammoth. It never goes unspoken about and makes for a great conversation piece.

In"vest"ing this season is an absolute must whether you manage to find an RZ one (there's a wait list on QVC) or splurge on a different Designer like I did. And, in honor of my late sister Heather, I can be found several nights a week in my apartment wearing only my vest, undies and a beer...channeling my inner Penny Lane.

(Pictured above on Rachel Zoe is the vest by Joie sold at Saks Fifth Avenue and Bloomingdale's, $318. Below the two Joie vests is the Rachel Zoe Faux Fur Vest with Hook & Eye Closure in Red Fox available on QVC, $79.80.)

Sleep With Your Master

Anyone who knows me well (or has spent an evening with me) knows that I don't do sleepovers. In the past couple of years, I've adopted a more "love 'em and leave 'em" kind of attitude. Yes, I've had some failed relationships in my time and it's taken it's toll. But I can safely say that this practice isn't out of any sort of breakup bitterness. Perhaps I'm protecting myself a little bit but there's really much more to it.

I've always felt that the act of sleeping is a lot more personal than the act of sleeping with someone in the sexual sense. When you're having sex, you can be the best version of yourself. When you're sleeping, you are in your most vulnerable state and pretty much have zero control over your actions. You can't control if you drool, fart, or talk in your sleep. In the morning, your breath stinks, you have crap in your eyes, and you look totally disheveled.

The thing is, if you wake up next to me and I'm not feeling rested, you will be waking up alongside the spawn of Satan (especially if I haven't mainlined my coffee yet). It's not so much that I'm an ugly duckling in the morning; it's about how much I value and cherish my resting period. And, if anyone disrupts that, namely a boy sleeping next to me, I will likely resent them for as long as I know them. If I don't sleep well, I don't function.

My bedroom needs to be a sanctuary of sorts. I have an air purifier running, a sound machine with the rain function going, blackout shades, eye mask, night guard, and ear plugs. These are fondly referred to by my Mom and me as sleeping utencils. Often, I wake up in the morning and put my childhood blankie over my head to make it that much darker...and quieter. Most people, especially men, look at me as a freak of sleepytime nature.

I don't mind sharing this personal information with you because it's only a story in a silly little blog. What I mind is letting someone (i.e. one night stand) actually see me in my retainer-wearing splendor only to break up shortly after leaving my room and life with the visual of me in my most vulnerable state. So, I don't do sleepovers because that is a priviledge that one now has to earn--not a right. The next time I let a man sleep over, he will know that I must be in it for the long haul...or Hell hath frozen over.

On a recent trip to Iceland with my family, I developed total sleep mask envy. My sister was sporting this gorgeous mask that basically covered her entire head. No ray of sunshine or peep of noise was getting through that bad boy. It looked like a silky pillow was resting on her eyes and cheekbones. I wanted that mask; I had to have it.

Late one night when jet-lag had the worst of me, I sat in the hotel lobby with my laptop and ordered myself one of these bad boys online from Amazon. After all, it promises "total light elimination and built-in sound muffling." Are you kidding me? Amazing.

As much as I loved climbing that glacier, I could hardly wait to climb into my bed back home with my new mask for a test drive. I returned to LA late at night to find a brown box outside my door. Inside: a little slice of heaven.

Getting into bed after a long day of travel followed by a luxurious shower was amazing. I slipped into something more comfortable and became one with my mask. That night, I saw nothing. I heard nothing. I remember nothing and, by morning, I was a new woman. I will never sleep without my Sleep Master mask ever again. If anything were to get me to let a boy back in my bed, this mask would do the trick. I would be guaranteed a sound sleep.

So, the next time you find yourself beside someone in bed in that oh-so-vulnerable state, master the art of sleeping and buy yourself a Sleep Master mask.

Popping My Department Store Cherry

Mothers are amazing beings. They nurture you, love you, and raise you to be the best woman you can possibly be. They give you advice on life and love and, without hesitation, offer a shoulder to cry on when your best efforts bite you in the ass. They keep you healthy with a slew of hearty, home-cooked meals and will never tell you that your butt looks fat in those jeans. They'll simply buy you a new pair that makes your backside look tiny no matter what size it really is.

And, if you fall into the "luckiest daughter in the world" category, your Mother will introduce you to your BFF; truly a best friend that will be there for you through thick and thin. This friend won't judge you or make you feel bad about a hasty indulgence or a terrible decision. Your friend will love you unconditionally and always welcome you with open arms. There will never be any attitude or talking back even if you're being a bit of a bitch that day from PMS or starvation. If anything, your friend will present you with solutions on how to work through the problem. This friend, fellow fashionistas, is...the department store.

(cue the angelic revelation music)

I was a bit of a late bloomer. It wasn't until my early to mid 20's that my Mom first took me to Saks Fifth Avenue at Copley Place in Boston. I remember thinking on the drive over that I would be happier heading to Bebe or Wet Seal but I went along for the ride anyway. I mean, who needs over-priced, designer threads when you can hit up your local Gap? Mom liked it, so why shouldn't I give it a go?

After parking in the obscenely expensive $12 an hour parking lot and walking for what felt like a million miles, we arrived at Saks. First stop: the Contemporary department. I couldn't believe my eyes. I was so attracted to that department; in total lust. It was reminiscent of the way I felt when I first laid eyes on that dreamy boy from that awesome TV show. Yeah, him. I was so hot for Contemporary. My legs got a little unsteady and my heart raced with adrenaline. Dale Earnhardt, Jr.'s Nascar races pale in comparison to the rush that I experienced walking into that store.

They strategically place Marc by Marc Jacobs (Marc Jacobs' more "affordable" line) right in front because everybody wants a piece of him. I soon learned why. His colors are electric and his usage of buttons and zippers make you want to rip up all your clothes at home and sew them back together with wreckless abandon and an exposed zipper.

I was immediately hooked. This store could do no wrong in my eyes...despite the fact that it might someday turn into an abusive relationship. Meaning, it takes advantage of me and I say, "okay." It's fashion rape. "No" means "yes" at a department store. At least, that's how I operate. I digress...

Mom and I meandered to the shoe department and I died. Not like Rachel Zoe dying where she dies every five seconds over everything she thinks is cute. I saw the light. I couldn't hear anyone or see anything around me. I had tunnel vision. Specifically, for the Christian Louboutin section. How could I not know about these shoes all these years? Was I too involved in my relationship with Nine West to see that there were other designers out there? My first word was shoe, dammit!!! You'd think I would've explored that fact in retail therapy. These shoes...well, they weren't just shoes. These were works of art! They were the Mona Lisa of footwear.

I imagine that what I felt trying on my first pair of Helmuts by Louboutin is similar to what Miss America might feel trying that crown on for the first time. You could get hit by a truck and it wouldn't matter because you know you're going out in style. I became obsessed with the Helmuts. Kirsten Dunst owned every pair in satin. SO not fair. Although envious of her bank account, I simply thought, "one day...". Well, I didn't have to wait too long for that day to arrive.

July 23, 2005 was the most glorious day of my fashion life. It was my birthday and I was already feeling pretty good. I was awakened by a few bouquets of white roses (my favorite) and very much looking forward to my day of planned pampering. Manis and pedis with a 20 minute massage are a birthday must. I was hosting a party that night at the then hot club, Nacionale, in Hollywood. My Sister had bought me a new BCBG dress for the party and my ex had gotten me this gorgeous Versace gold bracelet watch, so I was already armed with a whole lotta fierce.

The doorbell rang. Expecting the guy from Empty Vase Florist again, I leisurely opened the door ready to accept my flowers. Not this time. It was the Postal Carrier with a box from my Mom. I LOVE getting packages from my Mom, especially on my birthday. She is hands down the most generous person I have ever met. Even her cards are well thought out and the sentiments inside never fail to make me laugh 'til my belly aches or cry tears of joy. The contents of this package changed my closet forever.

I opened up the box and, after sifting through some amazing chotchkies, a light brown Louboutin box appeared begging me to open it. My jaw dropped to the floor as I smacked my hand over my mouth. I know the minimum price tag on these bad boys, so whatever was in this box was something special. After pulling back the tissue paper, I found a pair of size 37, leopard print, pony hair Helmuts. They were divine. My Mother became a fashion angel delivering me the word of the Loubou-Lord. Everything changed and nothing I put on my feet would ever live up to these shoes. At least, until I bought my next pair...and the next...and the next.

That picture above was taken right before my birthday party at a little cocktail soiree; the night I christened "the" shoes. Countless pairs later, I still wear them quite often and have had them resoled twice now. When the time comes for me to retire them (a day I fear like I fear my own death), I will have them preserved so that I can pass them down to my very own daughter. She can tell her friends how her Mom's shoe collection gave Imelda Marcos a run for her money.

Now, I know that we aren't all fortunate enough to actually make purchases at Neimans, Barneys, or Saks but no one says we can't window shop or peruse the shoe department at Bloomingdales like a creepy stalker with a sky-high pile of restraining orders. I go into Barneys all the time and ogle the handbag section; drooling over the latest collection of Balenciaga bags. When asked by the Sales Associate if I need help (clad in my Mizrahi shades from Target and Converse Chuck Taylors), I simply shake my head "no" as if I'm too important to speak. It's all about the illusion, people.

Fashion is my second love next to acting. Putting the perfect outfit together is an artform. Often, I am asked, "where did you get those jeans" or "how do you know how to put those pieces together?" My goal with this blog is to share my little fashion secrets without you having to spend a dime on a stylist. No, I'm not Rachel Zoe. I am, however, knowledgeable enough about designers, stores and what works (and doesn't work) on the female form. I will talk about my recent purchases and teach you how to pair a $300 Joie top with some jeans from Wet Seal. You don't need Barneys to make you feel like a million bucks. All you'll do is spend that. Consider me your very own Rachel Zoe--minus all the bananas and dying.

xoL