Although I’m stoked you’ve visited Red Stilettos, click the link above to head over to Vogue Yogini and see what I’ve been up to lately.
As for RS, I’ll be back!
Rent the Runway, the designer dress renter I spotlighted in Brite Girl’s Fall 2010 issue, has quickly become my go-to source for fabulousness on the fly (read more about the company and rental process here).
After my induction into the secret society of frugal fashionistas, my first rental consisted of some sassy little numbers by Cynthia Vincent and Tracy Reese for our first photo shoot:
[Thrilled at looking hot and designer-ish]
My birthday happens to fall on New Year’s weekend so, naturally, for my second rental I chose a lacy Nicole Miller sheath that seemed appropriately snug/revealing but not too slutty to celebrate my ancient 28 years.
Then, the great blizzard of 2010 hit the entire country. UPS was immobilized. Shipment delayed until AFTER my birthday dinner [gasp!]. Utter disappointment, a bit of anger, and general brattiness set in. And what did RTR do? As if she read my weeping mind, the CEO herself sent an email apologizing for the unseen delay and New Year’s Eve fashion “emergency.” She offered two options to appease the fashion beasts: 1. Place an order for two (TWO!) dresses and two (TWO!) coordinating accessories by 3pm on December 30, choose overnight delivery and receive the order by 3pm on December 31 for FREE; or 2. Call the 800-number, impossibly unsatisfied by any other costume option, and get a refund. The only limitation on option #1 was that the order not exceed $550. I chose option #1, of course (HELLO! My original order was only $42!). Had to be done out of principal, if nothing else.
So now I have two snug/revealing but not too slutty costumes to choose from for my birthday - one Milly and one Nicole Miller, plus a couple of accessories. I’m a tad disappointed that I won’t get to wear the exact dress I chose but any disappointment is overshadowed by the stellar customer service I received.
RTR strikes awesome again. That’s how you take care of customers - and keep them coming back! RTR, I think I love you… is that weird?
So, I was stuck in traffic behind a Dodge Neon this morning and had a flashback to the first time I got drunk - I mean really, really drunk. It was a cold, blustery New Year’s Eve in Central New Hampshire (approx. age: 14), when my girlfriends and I concocted what we perceived as the perfect/novel/infallible plan: We would meet at Emily’s house, party at an upperclassman’s nearby bash and crash back at Emily’s under the guise of having a sleepover (surely no teenager had thought of such a plan yet!).
The evening began masterfully: we drank Jack Daniels’ Hard Iced Tea and other random hideous malt liquors, danced, told jokes and I, of course, engaged in borderline excessive conversation with Host Whats-His-Name, some tall, dark and handsome football/hockey/lacrosse-player upperclassman I crushed on (which should surprise no one reading this). Then something happened and I went from grooving to La Bouche on the dance floor to dizzily barfing in the bathroom and wondering if I was supposed to be enjoying this feeling (?).
Sidenote: At that point, my drinking repertoire consisted of a few minor run-ins while crashing parties with my girlfriends. One particular experience that comes to mind involved pushing Kelly’s broken-down Mazda 323 out of an intersection during a blizzard to hang out at the Keller household (thank you, Aaron, for giving me my first Nattie Light, which I took three sips of and got such an intense buzz I could barely walk to the bathroom).
Having been a (super-maxed-out-bleached) blonde for several years, the thought of “going darker” was horrifying at best. My case of blonde-orexia prevented me from donning a new, more natural look, even though it’s something I’d wanted to do for a while. I finally did it. Why? Because the thought of a post-Barbie-blonde existence sparked a profound period of reflection on my locks: what, exactly, have I been hiding along with my true, natural color? Why bleach my hair? Why annihilate what’s already there? What’s wrong with it? Hiding behind a brand, an identification, a label? What’s up with that?
Concurrent to toying with the idea of going back to my “roots,” I picked up Steve Ross’s Happy Yoga, in which he discusses the imposition of identity and the danger of seeking hard, fast definitions of who we are - that doing so is an injustice, limiting who we really are and who we ultimately become (and we’re all guilty of it). I realized that I spent years searching for “who I am,” deciding on different self-classifications from one day to the next - trying on identities like trying on prom dresses, trying to figure out which one looked right, which one felt right. So I decided that I was done. Let’s do it - no more blonde. I was ready to wear who I am, whoever (or whatever) that may be. No more square pegs in round holes. No more “identity” - just “is.”
Well, the “dark” deed was finally done and it looks fantastic and feels amazing. What feels so amazing? I’m embracing instead of erasing. This is who I am - and I’m totally ok with that.
Tis the season for pre-game shows on Saturdays at 10 a.m., special “lucky” shirts/hats/handshakes, cathartic releases (aka verbal assaults on announcers), beer bottle caps strewn about the house, incessant analysis in general, and an awkward attentiveness to Erin Andrews. Dear Lord, I love football season but give me the strength to tolerate all that comes with it! Amen.
Call me prepared. For what? Not quite sure:
What’s in your desk?