While in New York I found this incredible designer resale store in Soho. It wasnt like your typical second hand "designer" store (Century 21 for example, an absolute cattle mart), it was a small, beautifully decorated citchy boutique, with clothes from desigers they'd even know in the schticks. Rails and rail of Chanel, Versace, Loubitons, Milano Blanhiks, Louis Vuitton, Hermes, you name it, it was there. Here I managed to find a STUNNING Vera Wang dress marked down from $450 to $112! Its an ivory and champagne silk cocktail dress with embellishment on top, and my first Wang!! Grabted I'm too terriffied of damaging it to wear it anywhere, but still, its all mine!! They ship overseas so if you fancy some designer bargains, head to
http://www.asecondchanceresale.com/
and have that credit card ready!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Clogs - They make me happy.
I will hold my hand up and ashamedly admit that when Karl Lagerfield decided that clogs were back...I wasn't exactly overjoyed. I wondered how the hell the everyday, non-celebrity public were going to pull them off, and why the Dutch were a sudden fashion inspiration. But I have to say, upon purchasing my first pair of clogs since I was 13, hats off to Carl, he's done it again. They make me happy. I don't know is it because my footsteps are now ridiculously noisy, musical infact, or that I feel a little Alexa in them, but they just feel so gaddamn good!! I went for a chocolate coloured pair from Topshop, very similar to the original Chanel ones launched this year (See Alexa Chung, British Vogue, March '10), and thusfar they've proved very versatile, great under skinnies, skirts, day dresses, the works. They may even soon replace my leopard print pumps that get worn with absolutely everything, I find the holes in the soles quite endearing myself. So Kudos to you Karl, yet again, you have done Coco proud.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Need Accessories??
"Coup de Coeur"
http://coupnyc.com/
Fantastic little boutique stores in New York, Have amazing once-off accessories, handbags and unique dresses, and nothing over $98. Definately worth a look if you're in New York!
http://coupnyc.com/
Fantastic little boutique stores in New York, Have amazing once-off accessories, handbags and unique dresses, and nothing over $98. Definately worth a look if you're in New York!
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Death of the blind date?
I recently received an email from RTE asking if I would be interested in appearing on a dating show. I haven't a notion how they got my contact details, which leads me to believe my Nan wrote a heartfelt letter to Marty Whelan in an act of sheer desperation to have me married off before she shuffles off this mortal coil. Or at least, to settle her worries that the reason I'm not in a serious relationship, considering marriage and stretchmarks, is that I am infact, a closet lesbian. Or worse still, a vegetarian closet lesbian. Imagine the whispers at mass…”Yes that’s her there…her granddaughter…one of those vegetarians..” Oh the horror.
On the topic of dating, a friend of mine also recently tried to set me up on a blind date with a good male friend of hers. As this was in the height of my dry spell, (I’ll add it has yet to rain) I said, fuck it, why not? Now I’ve never personally been on a blind date before, but I always thought both parties were given a time and place, Bob would wear a red flower in his lapel and Mary would be in a blue dress etc etc etc. Apparently I’m living in the past. Now you have to add each other on Facebook, little photo stalking, little IM-ing, little flirting….THEN comes the date. Therein lay the problem for me. Firstly, I was mortified adding this guy I had never met purely on the premise that we were being set up. So naturally, some reconnaissance work had to be done first…..pre-adding-as-friend photo stalking. This, I’m not proud to say, is where problem number two arose. Bob had been described to Mary as good looking, gorgeous eyes, slightly receding but with a shaven head to hide it. Bob did indeed have all these features and more. It was the more that bothered me. Bob was bald. I had never considered myself to be a hair-racist until now. That may be however because this was my first potential bald date. I was like Natalie Umbruglia, torn. Bald or not the facts still remained:
I was going through a major dry spell
I had agreed to the blind date
He was apparently hilarious, and lovely but not too lovely in a “sweetheart here’s my testicles in a jar, I thought you might like to keep them as a token of my love” sort of way.
My Nan could finally come off the Valium knowing that I went on a date with a real-life man.
All good reasons to give it a go.
HOWEVER
I’m only 23. Which I feel is a bit young yet to be consoling yourself that your days of dating men with full flowing fetlocks are over.
If I went ahead and added him as a friend and found more damning photos, it would be too late, the connection had been made, and the date couldn’t be avoided without some seriously awkward diarrhoea related excuses. And nobody wants that.
I could fall madly in love with him and one day have his babies. Thin hair also runs in my family. Too risky.
So rather ashamedly I have to admit, I never added him. And when asked by my friend why I hadn’t, I would put in an Oscar worthy performance of getting a phone call, or being attacked by an invisible bee. She eventually stopped asking, probably more concerned with the fact that no-one else ever saw the infamous bee, and that I was most likely, having an episode of some sort. No doubt brought on by the drought. Which I’m sure now will only get worse because of my hair-racist karma.
I often wonder, if I hadn’t seen any photos and just gone ahead and met him what would have happened? Would my hair-racism have reared up just the same? Resulting in a “What??? You were in an accident? I’ll be right there!!” call followed by a swift exit stage left? Or would I have been so dazzled by his charm and loveliness that he could have been wearing a short sleeved cheque shirt and proper running-runners and it wouldn’t have bothered me?
Its official: Facebook has murdered the blind date as we know it. Now you can practically find out a mans inner leg measurements before you’ve even met. (Interpret that as you will!!) A bad profile photo can potentially destroy a relationship before it’s even begun. And profiles with no photo? Even worse. Axe Murderer. Guaranteed. Guys with no profile whatsoever? Amish sociopath.
So with Cilla Black off the air, and Facebook wielding its thwarty axe, what is to become of blind dating for the 21st century? Does Facebook almost destroy the chance of falling for someone’s great personality anymore? Or is it actually a blessing? Is it infact saving us from looking for Bob’s red rose in a crowded room, from Amish sociopaths, from short sleeve cheque shirts?
Or the most important question of all; Did Facebook murder my shot at love (or a summer romance at least)?? Wait a minute, it works both ways, he never added me either. And I think I look quite fetching in my profile picture.
The Bastard.
On the topic of dating, a friend of mine also recently tried to set me up on a blind date with a good male friend of hers. As this was in the height of my dry spell, (I’ll add it has yet to rain) I said, fuck it, why not? Now I’ve never personally been on a blind date before, but I always thought both parties were given a time and place, Bob would wear a red flower in his lapel and Mary would be in a blue dress etc etc etc. Apparently I’m living in the past. Now you have to add each other on Facebook, little photo stalking, little IM-ing, little flirting….THEN comes the date. Therein lay the problem for me. Firstly, I was mortified adding this guy I had never met purely on the premise that we were being set up. So naturally, some reconnaissance work had to be done first…..pre-adding-as-friend photo stalking. This, I’m not proud to say, is where problem number two arose. Bob had been described to Mary as good looking, gorgeous eyes, slightly receding but with a shaven head to hide it. Bob did indeed have all these features and more. It was the more that bothered me. Bob was bald. I had never considered myself to be a hair-racist until now. That may be however because this was my first potential bald date. I was like Natalie Umbruglia, torn. Bald or not the facts still remained:
I was going through a major dry spell
I had agreed to the blind date
He was apparently hilarious, and lovely but not too lovely in a “sweetheart here’s my testicles in a jar, I thought you might like to keep them as a token of my love” sort of way.
My Nan could finally come off the Valium knowing that I went on a date with a real-life man.
All good reasons to give it a go.
HOWEVER
I’m only 23. Which I feel is a bit young yet to be consoling yourself that your days of dating men with full flowing fetlocks are over.
If I went ahead and added him as a friend and found more damning photos, it would be too late, the connection had been made, and the date couldn’t be avoided without some seriously awkward diarrhoea related excuses. And nobody wants that.
I could fall madly in love with him and one day have his babies. Thin hair also runs in my family. Too risky.
So rather ashamedly I have to admit, I never added him. And when asked by my friend why I hadn’t, I would put in an Oscar worthy performance of getting a phone call, or being attacked by an invisible bee. She eventually stopped asking, probably more concerned with the fact that no-one else ever saw the infamous bee, and that I was most likely, having an episode of some sort. No doubt brought on by the drought. Which I’m sure now will only get worse because of my hair-racist karma.
I often wonder, if I hadn’t seen any photos and just gone ahead and met him what would have happened? Would my hair-racism have reared up just the same? Resulting in a “What??? You were in an accident? I’ll be right there!!” call followed by a swift exit stage left? Or would I have been so dazzled by his charm and loveliness that he could have been wearing a short sleeved cheque shirt and proper running-runners and it wouldn’t have bothered me?
Its official: Facebook has murdered the blind date as we know it. Now you can practically find out a mans inner leg measurements before you’ve even met. (Interpret that as you will!!) A bad profile photo can potentially destroy a relationship before it’s even begun. And profiles with no photo? Even worse. Axe Murderer. Guaranteed. Guys with no profile whatsoever? Amish sociopath.
So with Cilla Black off the air, and Facebook wielding its thwarty axe, what is to become of blind dating for the 21st century? Does Facebook almost destroy the chance of falling for someone’s great personality anymore? Or is it actually a blessing? Is it infact saving us from looking for Bob’s red rose in a crowded room, from Amish sociopaths, from short sleeve cheque shirts?
Or the most important question of all; Did Facebook murder my shot at love (or a summer romance at least)?? Wait a minute, it works both ways, he never added me either. And I think I look quite fetching in my profile picture.
The Bastard.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Lonely Hearts
*LONELY HEARTS*
Not completely unattractive 20 something year old female, GSOH, intelligent and fun loving
Seeks
Good looking, kind, funny, generous, non-moody, non-bollixy girlfriendless 20 something male who wants more than drunken shag or quick “shift” with a feel of the arse in the smoking area.
And on the opposite page?
DENNY PANIC AS MEATH FARMER DISCOVERS, PIGS INFACT, CAN FLY
So here I sit on a Saturday night, alone, singing along to Amy Winehouse (wondering why X factor hasn’t discovered me yet), a young Brigit Jones in the making. I like to think the laptop makes me a bit Carrie Bradshaw, but unfortunately I haven’t had enough wine yet to even believe that myself. Especially as Carrie was the star of Sex in the city which would imply that she had sex, even if a bit less than the others. Lets see, well with how my love life as been lately I’ll have to tick the NO box for that one. That leaves us with, “in the City”. I don’t think Moneygall quite qualifies somehow. So in my unfortunately sober state I do realise that the only similarity between us, as I first thought, is the laptop.
I suppose I can’t really complain about not finding a man when this is how my Saturday night goes, but in my defence my only other options tonight were:
1) Heading out locally. That doesn’t sound so bad you might say. But you’ve never been to MY local, where you get evil stares if you DARE to wear anything dressier than your best spaghetti string top and glittery just-one-size-too-small jeans and your highest hopes of romance are with guys you went to school with six years ago out in their favourite short sleeved checked shirts and baggy beige chords who have a faint, but odd, odour of cabbage about them. And the “club” is the ballroom of the hotel with a discoball on the ceiling and maniac 2000 on repeat. And of course you can’t DARE get properly drunk or you’ll be the talk of 11 o clock mass n the morning, which you obviously won’t be attending as your head will have a date with the toilet bowl at the time. Breaking your mothers’ heart. Next thing you know the next round of stations of the cross are rescheduled to be in your house and a there’s sudden influx of AA leaflets in through your letter box.
No. OR
2) Watching the 2006 gardeners world roses special with Mam.
I think that option speaks for itself.
And the reason for all this self-imposed miserableness? (which I do realise is not a word) My earlier plans of going to a certain nearby city (names are hidden for identity purposes!) and getting all dolled up and heading for cocktails and clubbing with one of the girls went down the shitter when she decided she wasn’t going out. No big deal right? Wrong. See it wasn’t the cocktails I was disappointed about, or even the clubbing. I’m in this foul humour because the in club we were going to I was almost guaranteed to run into the love of my life, lets call him Mr. X, for a few hugs and drunken conversations that, when replayed in my head are declarations of absolute undying love. The only problem with the love of my life is that, well, he seems to be in love with his girlfriend. Who is not me. Except inside in my head. It’s been over a year now since he’s become the love of my life, friends started hinting that maybe now he had a girlfriend I should move on. But I didn’t. Now they just shout GET OVER HIM!! at me. Loudly. But what they don’t realise is that im not not moving on intentionally, there just doesn’t seem to be anything to move on to! The only guys that take my fancy all seem to have that little girlfriend problem, or the bollixy one, and the only (even if extremely scarce) offers I ever get are from the aforementioned cabbage patch kids. And so as the vicious cycle of love goes (I’d like to see Disney write an uplifting song about that one) I end up right back where I stared, dreaming about Mr X, picturing the scene next time I meet him out, where he tells me he’s broken up with his girlfriend because he was in love with me and couldn’t hide it any longer and we kiss just like they do in the movies and live happily ever after. Or on the pms days, thinking we’re not together because they’re must be something wrong with me, im too short, im too tall, my left eyebrow is plucked slightly thinner than my right one, or not thin enough..thin enough…I’M FAT! That’s what it is! My jeans may say ten but no no that’s just because the poor little combodian slave working sowing them was exhausted from working 20 hour shifts and forgot to sow on the extra zero on the end!!
And so they cycle of crazy goes. Now I’m off to watch Moulan Rogue for what must be the 27th time and imagine his head on Euan Mcgregors body, and mine on Nicoles and wait for my lonely hearts add to be answered, and that Meath farmer to have his day.
Don’t worry, I do realise I’m certifiably insane.
But I like it here in my own little world, its peaceful.
Except for all those goddamn fairies.
Not completely unattractive 20 something year old female, GSOH, intelligent and fun loving
Seeks
Good looking, kind, funny, generous, non-moody, non-bollixy girlfriendless 20 something male who wants more than drunken shag or quick “shift” with a feel of the arse in the smoking area.
And on the opposite page?
DENNY PANIC AS MEATH FARMER DISCOVERS, PIGS INFACT, CAN FLY
So here I sit on a Saturday night, alone, singing along to Amy Winehouse (wondering why X factor hasn’t discovered me yet), a young Brigit Jones in the making. I like to think the laptop makes me a bit Carrie Bradshaw, but unfortunately I haven’t had enough wine yet to even believe that myself. Especially as Carrie was the star of Sex in the city which would imply that she had sex, even if a bit less than the others. Lets see, well with how my love life as been lately I’ll have to tick the NO box for that one. That leaves us with, “in the City”. I don’t think Moneygall quite qualifies somehow. So in my unfortunately sober state I do realise that the only similarity between us, as I first thought, is the laptop.
I suppose I can’t really complain about not finding a man when this is how my Saturday night goes, but in my defence my only other options tonight were:
1) Heading out locally. That doesn’t sound so bad you might say. But you’ve never been to MY local, where you get evil stares if you DARE to wear anything dressier than your best spaghetti string top and glittery just-one-size-too-small jeans and your highest hopes of romance are with guys you went to school with six years ago out in their favourite short sleeved checked shirts and baggy beige chords who have a faint, but odd, odour of cabbage about them. And the “club” is the ballroom of the hotel with a discoball on the ceiling and maniac 2000 on repeat. And of course you can’t DARE get properly drunk or you’ll be the talk of 11 o clock mass n the morning, which you obviously won’t be attending as your head will have a date with the toilet bowl at the time. Breaking your mothers’ heart. Next thing you know the next round of stations of the cross are rescheduled to be in your house and a there’s sudden influx of AA leaflets in through your letter box.
No. OR
2) Watching the 2006 gardeners world roses special with Mam.
I think that option speaks for itself.
And the reason for all this self-imposed miserableness? (which I do realise is not a word) My earlier plans of going to a certain nearby city (names are hidden for identity purposes!) and getting all dolled up and heading for cocktails and clubbing with one of the girls went down the shitter when she decided she wasn’t going out. No big deal right? Wrong. See it wasn’t the cocktails I was disappointed about, or even the clubbing. I’m in this foul humour because the in club we were going to I was almost guaranteed to run into the love of my life, lets call him Mr. X, for a few hugs and drunken conversations that, when replayed in my head are declarations of absolute undying love. The only problem with the love of my life is that, well, he seems to be in love with his girlfriend. Who is not me. Except inside in my head. It’s been over a year now since he’s become the love of my life, friends started hinting that maybe now he had a girlfriend I should move on. But I didn’t. Now they just shout GET OVER HIM!! at me. Loudly. But what they don’t realise is that im not not moving on intentionally, there just doesn’t seem to be anything to move on to! The only guys that take my fancy all seem to have that little girlfriend problem, or the bollixy one, and the only (even if extremely scarce) offers I ever get are from the aforementioned cabbage patch kids. And so as the vicious cycle of love goes (I’d like to see Disney write an uplifting song about that one) I end up right back where I stared, dreaming about Mr X, picturing the scene next time I meet him out, where he tells me he’s broken up with his girlfriend because he was in love with me and couldn’t hide it any longer and we kiss just like they do in the movies and live happily ever after. Or on the pms days, thinking we’re not together because they’re must be something wrong with me, im too short, im too tall, my left eyebrow is plucked slightly thinner than my right one, or not thin enough..thin enough…I’M FAT! That’s what it is! My jeans may say ten but no no that’s just because the poor little combodian slave working sowing them was exhausted from working 20 hour shifts and forgot to sow on the extra zero on the end!!
And so they cycle of crazy goes. Now I’m off to watch Moulan Rogue for what must be the 27th time and imagine his head on Euan Mcgregors body, and mine on Nicoles and wait for my lonely hearts add to be answered, and that Meath farmer to have his day.
Don’t worry, I do realise I’m certifiably insane.
But I like it here in my own little world, its peaceful.
Except for all those goddamn fairies.
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