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CONFESSION: Today was a day for the bank. I attended a private tasting of Dalmore’s 12, 15, Gran Reserva and King Alexander III single malt scotch whiskys, plus a very special bonus tasting, at the methodically handsome Laszlo in the Mission. The dear Scottish man who led the tasting said that I reminded him of a lovely, elegant Lowlands single malt scotch whisky, when he wasn’t spitting onto the floor at any mention of the French. (You can eventually read more about all that here, at my “other” blog. I don’t want to spoil it.) They were kind enough to let me pop upstairs before and after the tasting to take some super awesome FFAF photos, hurrah. Just a moment ago the UPS guy arrived with a very important package, and I was so excited that M said I made a big old ruckus of “kitten noises,” whatever those are. It contained a new dress (not-so-LBD) and super badass new shoes. I can’t wait to show y’all! M is well enough to drink a bottle of cava with me (finally!) and lasagna is baking in the oven with some fluffy garlic bread in hot pursuit. DREAMY.

SCENT: Tom Ford’s Black Orchid. I must confess something. I broke up with Tom awhile ago, but after reading about his directorial debut starring Colin Firth (and Julianne Moore) in A Single Man, I’ve realized something very, very important: My love for Colin is greater than my hate for Tom. Does that make sense? Of course it does. (He’s Mark-bloody-Darcy, after all.) I digress. Black Orchid is a hot, heady, stunning mess. The jury is out on whether or not that’s a good or bad thing. The opening is almost like scorched black licorice drizzled over jasmine and sundry florals, like in Absinthe or Drambuie. It does kind of smolder, all bared teeth, glossed lips and super dangerous bedroom eyes. This smells like the kind of woman you should stay away from – you know better, of course – but you can’t help yourself. I’m going to have to come back to this, because it’s too complex!

Here are some notes, FYI: Black Truffle, Ylang, Bergamot, Black Currant. Then the black orchid, dark florals, rich fruit, Lotus Wood. At last, there’s Patchouli, Incense, Vetiver and Vanilla Tears, Balsam and Sandalwood.

Watch this and tell me you don’t find it completely gorgeous. Seriously.

And since it was one of the most beautiful stills:

Little Miss Panda Pants from The Not tagged me for a Blog Meme which, as far as this version is concerned, means that you select six victims friends to reveal six embarrassing interesting quirks to the masses, and then go crawl into a dank space somewhere in shame, or thumb your nose Pippi Longstocking-style because you gives a fuck, sucka! After this, I will be doing some of both.

Thus, I have selected six areas of my closet that bring me at least small amounts of shame or sheepishness:

1. The studded white leather belt. I have many belts, as you can see. Some are brown and folksy, some are made out of sequins, some are skinny and some are wide, some have superior buckles of a violent nature. However, no belt draws as much guilty, red-faced disgrace as the studded white belt (we can’t leave vegan lesbians out of this, but mine is, in fact, genuine leather). I once went dancing (yes, it was a tea dance, shut up) at a place where there sat an entire table of white belt wearing lesbians. Sad. Just sad. I don’t know why they are so pervasive amongst young Sapphic ruffians, but I do know I’ll likely never wear it again, but I just can’t seem to let it go.

2. The Tetris Stiletto. My girlfriend fucking adores these shoes. She can’t get enough of them. Perhaps it’s because she’s a handsome MIT nerd with an undying penchant for Tetris. Perhaps because some hard-wired instinct to mate with a creature donning a dizzying array of color makes them irresistible. I don’t know, but I know that I’m rather ambivalent about them and that my best friend cannot stand them, but so far, M has won this fight. The shoes stay. They are, by the by, from Bakers. Yes, Bakers, people. Christ on a stick.

3. Gunne Sax. Y’all, Gunne Sax. This dress winked at me from the Belle Vita window on College Avenue one fine evening and M just couldn’t help herself, so she was mine, all mine. Beneath the black netting overlay dotted with nacreous sparkles is a satiny layer of black polyester and black, lace-trimmed crinoline. It’s like cocktail-hour-meets-saloon-girl chic! OK, so it’s not chic at all, but heaven help me, I love it and I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK! I even wore it to our fancy box seats at the opera with a black fur once. Classy.

4. Little gorgeous things, darling. Speaking of classy, pls. to meet some of my corsets. While there is absolutely nothing at all wrong with a little corset action for those special bodice-ripping hours in the boudoir, or the fact that some of them are very practical undergarments as well as achingly pretty, the real crime here is that I have been known, in days past, to wear them in public. [CRY.] To goth clubs or dark wave nights, for instance. [CRY CRY.] Wiggling around in little else but a vamp pencil skirt or black satin cigarette pants or whatnot. [CRY CRY SOB CHOKE CRY.] Please to note the VINYL version with all the severe buckles and matching hot pants. Or, you know, erase it from your memory for evermore, amen. The real, tragic truth is that I probably will, at some point, do it again, like an abused wife back to her drunken, rage-filled husband. He said he was sorry! Lies.

5. So many clutches. I own a despicable number of clutches. Here are some of them. Do you know what clutches are good for? Fitting FUCK-ALL. LOSING shit when transferring items from one clutch to another. LOSING period, because they are small and forgettable after 84,000 Ketel One cosmos. I’ve spent many minutes stuffing a clutch like a goddamn Thanksgiving turkey but so that it still snaps or zips or whatnot. Can y’all tell that I’ve got one hell of a hard, stubborn ass head yet? I love a clutch. I can’t say no to them. I don’t believe in having too many. M will slap them out of my hands when I screech to a halt in a store because they are practically jumping into them like so many adorable little Mexican beans. Give it.

6. The cry sweater. You guys, this is the grand finale. This used to be my mother’s hoodie. It is at least 20 years old. M calls it my “Cry Sweater” because, for some odd reason, I cry in it a lot. We used to stay in a cabin up at Trinity Alps Resort every summer, and they had lots of bears, a rickety old bridge made from nothing but wood and rope over a thrashing, ice cold river, all the Shirley Temples and ice cream a girl could ever want and, of course, ponies. I stole this hoodie from my mom at some point. It’s got holes everywhere – including one right over the left nipple – and paint from when I painted my old living room purple. It says “For the rest of your life!” under the bear napping in the hammock. I will never, ever, ever give or throw it away, no matter disgusting or useless it gets. Aw!

I hope that was enjoyable for y’all. Now, I tag:

NADARINE

BREAKING BLUES

JENNA’S MODEL LIFE

MYRTLE BEACH BUM

CHIC STYLE GEEK

BUBBLEGUM CULTURE