Accessories

What’s in my bag? ⁴

One of the best parts of my Us Weekly subscription is having the opportunity to take a peek inside rich people’s designer handbags once every seven days.

LC would fill her Rebecca Minkoff bag with cute little ziplocks full of almonds, wouldn’t she?

Alright…that’s a lie. I usually skip over this page and head straight for the section filled with photos of Suri Cruise shopping at Saks in a $5,000 sailor dress.

Priorities, people, Priorities.

Still, I’ve always secretly wanted to have the opportunity to do a cute little write-up about the contents of my handbag. And if you can’t pretend to be a celebrity on your very own blog, then I don’t know where you can! So buckle up, ‘Sota readers. I’m sharing the completely unedited (not to mention slightly underwhelming) collection of ‘ish I tote around on a day-to-day basis.

Laid out on a calfskin rug, obviously. I be fancy like that.

1. My trusty coach wallet

This was the first “nice” wallet I ever purchased. I was a poor graduate student, and didn’t really have the money for it at the time, but was in Vegas and felt compelled to buy something totally indulgent. Little did I know it would be one of my most practical investments to date! Five years later, I’m still rocking the wallet and have no plans to replace it. (A true anomaly for this shopaholic!) While the style I chose is no longer carried in stores, this version is quite similar.

2. Sixteen tubes of lipstick

I think this means I have a problem…right?

3. Doggie poop bags

Because you never know when Jolie’s gonna drop it like it’s hot in the middle of someone’s carefully manicured lawn. (Or when I’ll spontaneously need to toss my cookies in the back of someone’s car.)

4. Versace sunglasses

One night, I was seated in the front row of a New York City comedy club when John Mayer decided to show up for an impromptu set. While I love John’s music, his ten minutes on-stage may have been the worst attempt at stand-up I’ve seen in my entire life. (Picture really snobby gripes about being ‘above’ dating someone who worked at The Olive Garden.) To be fair, he did have one redeeming joke:

“When I get into heaven, I better get all my sunglasses back.”

I could totally relate as I had a serious problem with misplacing my sunglasses.

Needless to say, biting the bullet in investing in a pair of designer shades seemed a little bit risky. Yet Scott had a theory that if they were a really nice pair–complete with a fancy case, of course–I might be able to hang onto them for more than a couple of months.

As is typically the case, Scott was right. (Normally I hate when that happens…but if him being right means I get designer sunglasses, I’ll find a way to manage.)

5. Ray-Ban sunglasses

In an attempt to transform into a hipster, I decided these Oversized Ray-Ban Wayfarers were a complete essential. (You can read the story behind them, here.) What started out as an impulse buy quickly became on of my best purchases of the year. I wear these everywhere, and love them so much, I’m finally ready to part with my Versace sunglasses. Anyone interested? I’ll sell them to you for a great price! And I’ll give you an extra discount as they did fall in a gas station toilet that one time…

6. Kleenex

No…I’m not slowly turning into a grandma who stockpiles tissue and Werther’s originals for a rainy day. These are leftover from my horrific sinus infection and I’ve been too lazy to toss them out.

7. Starbucks VIA

Reserved for caffiene emergencies. (Which happen more often than I’d like to admit.)

8. Express Coupons

Reserved for shopping emergencies. (Which happen even more frequently than caffeine emergencies.)

9. Orbitz Gum

This is less about my quest for fresh breath and more about having something to shove in my mouth at a restaurant before I end up eating my weight in cheesecake. For some reason, I’ve always been loyal to the Orbitz brand. Need proof?

“Dirty mouth? Clean it up!” (Halloween 2007)

10. Scott’s empty contact lens package

I’m truly shocked there wasn’t more of Scott’s crap lurking in my handbag when I emptied it out last night. I swear, the man has never heard of pockets, and begs me to tow around all of his stray belongings. The worst is when we go shopping, and he declines any sort of plastic bag in an effort to save the environment, which leaves me shoving three t-shirts from H&M into my handbag. Not only does it make the purse bulky and cumbersome…I suddenly appear to be a shoplifter.

With a Louis Vuitton bag.

It’s like I’m Minnesota’s version of Winona Ryder!

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Walking a mile (or twenty) in my shoes ¹

The only thing worse than tromping around town in a torturous pair of heels is doing so alongside a man who has no empathy, legs that are freakishly long, and a unrealisticaly quick walking pace.

(I’m talking to you, Scott.)

My husband’s lack of patience for my footwear-induced slowness (and the cankle sprains that ensue) certainly doesn’t come from a place of malice or animosity. Like most men on the planet, he simply fails to understand the pain and suffering one endures when walking twenty-three blocks in a pair of stilettos that feel as if they’re crafted from broken glass and sandpaper.

“Katrina, those were two-hundred dollars! Aren’t the expensive shoes so expensive because they are more comfortable?”

Ha!

(For any men reading this post, that is absolutely not the way the women’s shoe world works.)

Needless to say, when Scott had his own walking-in-uncomfortable-shoes-catastrophe in New York last weekend, I couldn’t help but feel the slightest amount of satisfaction.

Fine. My delight was possibly more than just “slight”. Dare I say it, I experienced a deep sense of atonement. Redemption. Amusement, even. Judge all you want, but the phrase “Now you know how I feel!” escaped my lips at least a dozen times. It was finally Scott’s turn to be the one walking around the city in ~~painful platform slingbacks~~ a pair of not-yet-broken-in hipster boots.

The entire thing started out with the ten-mile run I mentioned in yesterday’s post. To feed my affinity for the overly dramatic, I’ll be referring to this afternoon jog as ‘The Urban Deathmarch’.

The Urban Deathmarch came to fruition around 2:00 on Saturday afternoon. Scott and I were staying with good friends in Brooklyn, one of whom is currently training for a half marathon next month. When we began mapping out plans for our Saturday in the city, she hesitantly informed us she had a training run planned that she really couldn’t skip out on.

“That’s fine!” I assured her. “I was actually hoping to get a workout in, anyway. I always feel so much better if I can fit a little activity in while I’m travelling. Plus, it’s a great way to experience the city. I’ll just come with you!”

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “Saturday is the day I do my long run.”

“Totally!” I chirped. “How far are you running?”

“This week I’m doing ten miles.”

Here’s the part where I mention that I went on my first run in over a year a mere five days before arriving in Brooklyn. It was barely a 5K and I struggled to maintain my 11-minute mile pace the entire way through. The resulting soreness caused me to walk as if I had just completed a 200-mile horseback ride for the next two days.

Clearly, ten miles wasn’t going to happen.

Still, I didn’t want to miss out on all the workout fun. I jogged along for the first four miles, ducking out a little early in order to preserve my untrained jello legs. (And let’s be honest, I needed the extra time to style my hair for a big night out in Manhattan.)

Scott, who hasn’t gone running in at least fourteen months, powered through the entire thing with more stubbornness than a Real Housewife of Atlanta. He swims every day and is in fantastic cardiovascular shape–surely it wouldn’t be a problem!

(Until the following day when he was the one walking like he’d galloped across the entire state of New York on the offspring of Mr. Ed without so much as a lightly padded saddle.)

Add to this the fact that he was then expected to traverse New York on foot while wearing a brand new pair of stiff leather boots, and an incredibly skinny pair of jeans, and you have a recipe for disaster.

“Katrina! You’re walking too fast!”

***

“Why aren’t you waiting for me?”

***

“Slow down! My feet huuuuuurt.”

****

“How many more blocks??”

***

“It’s not nice to walk so far ahead of me!”

***

“Is this what girls’ feet always feel like?”

*****

While I’m glad Scott’s feet are finally back to normal, I’m also quite glad he now understands first-hand how I feel when trying to keep up with his mammoth stride while donning an excruciating pair of Sam Edelman peep-toes.

But mostly I’m just glad I had the gumption to digitally capture the spectacle that was him, walking up several flights of stairs as if he were 94 years of age.

He’ll never run ten miles again. (OR become a drag queen.)

Not that he ever has been a drag queen, or anything. But were he ever to experience a sudden hankering to dress like a lady man, I’m pretty sure the knowledge of what walking in heels actually feels like would completely deter him.

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Produce Anxiety

“Beauty takes pain” ⁹

Disclaimer: You may not want to read the following post if you have issues with looking at unsettling photos of feet. My feet, if we’re getting technical.

(There. You’ve officially been warned.)

(Umm…you also may not want to read this if you’re Tory Burch.)

(Although I think we all know Tory Burch doesn’t read this blog.)

(Although if you somehow are Tory Burch…I would love some free handbag swag. Particularly the ‘Amanda’ leather hobo in black…but only if you have, you know, extras lying around or something.)

****

“Beauty takes pain, Katrina.”

These are the words my mother would speak to me each time she mistakenly burnt my forehead with the curling iron. While Mama Leslie possesses many valuable skills, maneuvering heated styling tools is certainly not one of them. Unfortunately, as a young child I didn’t know any better, and my skin was frequently scalded on accident. (I think this is the reason my parents insisted I have bangs until the age of thirteen.)

Whether or not you’ve been the victim of a curling iron, I think we can all agree that at times, our appearance takes presidence over our level of physical comfort. Need proof? Look no further than Botox, bikini waxes, tattoos and even high-heeled footwear. Looking good comes at a price, and often requires a maximum dose of extra-strength Tylenol.

But when does the price become too high to pay? There’s a significant amount of grey area surrounding the line that divides reasonable from ridiculous — ultimately, the level of discomfort we choose to subject ourselves to is a personal choice. Pain is a relative concept, and it’s up to us as individuals to define our own boundaries in regards to the sacrifices we’re willing to make for style.

I’m beginning to learn that as I grow older, my tolerance for pain is rapidly shrinking. If “beauty takes pain” then I might as well resign to a life of homeliness–or at the very least, a life of ugly shoes.

Some of you may remember Scott’s grand gesture on Valentine’s Day last year. (Truly, it was less of an act of love than it was a tactic to avoid a Katrina-style meltdown on the most romantic day of the year, but I take what I can get these days.) I’d been pining over a pair of Tory Burch Reva flats for months, and had begged Scott to gift them to me as a Valentine’s Day “surprise”. Buying the shoes ended up being a huge investment not only because of their $195 price tag — Scott was involved in a minor car accident while picking them up, which ended up costing an additional $500.

My husband literally went through hell to get the shoes, and while I did feel a small tinge of guilt, the vast majority of my being was utterly delighted with my new footwear.

Until I tried them on.

Anyone who owns a pair of Tory flats can attest to the fact that they are about as comfortable as a Chinese torture device. It wasn’t a sizing issue — the pair Scott picked up for me fit perfectly–yet they still hurt more than salt in a paper cut. I chalked it up to the notion that they weren’t yet broken in, and wore them religiously for the next month, assuming they would gradually grow more comfortable.

This never happened. I could only keep the flats on for an hour or two before they started wreaking havoc on my poor little feet. At this point it was too late to take them back, yet I didn’t want Scott to think I was ungrateful for the $200 ballet flats–especially as purchasing them was partially responsible for a $500 fender bender on Interstate 94. To solve for both problems, I began only wearing the shoes on occasions I knew would be three hours or less–this way Scott would see that I was enjoying his present, yet I wouldn’t be wearing the shoes long enough to put me at risk for an above-the-toe amputation.

For the past nine months, I have carried on this hopeless charade. Most recently, I wore the shoes to Scott’s 30th birthday celebration in Omaha. Things were going swimmingly until we hit up a local dance club at the end of the soiree. For just under two hours I shook my body to the the blaring house music as vigorously as possible, with no concern for the pain radiating through both of my feet. (The fact that I had been wearing a skirt made entirely of leather fringe may have encouraged such wild, irreverent hip shaking.)

A few hours later I should have been sound asleep. Instead, I found myself lying miserably awake in my sister-in-law’s guest room, unable to drift off to peaceful slumber as my big toes were throbbing furiously. Not that I would know…but I think it may have been almost as bad as childbirth.

I blame this on you, Tory Burch.

The pain continued for a good 48-hours before eventually subsiding. I had honestly forgotten about the entire incident until last night when I went to remove my toenail polish.

I’m sorry you had to see this.

No… I don’t have toenail fungus. The discoloration you see above is a bruise that was given to me by those freaking shoes.

Um…I mean the beautiful pair of flats my husband so generously gifted me for Valentine’s day after weeks and weeks of relentless begging and if I’m being totally honest, a couple of “motivational” threats on my part.

(I suppose this is the karma that happens to those who guilt-trip their spouses into buying designer shoes.)

Oh…and my toenails are white at the top because they’ve been covered in nail polish for five years straight. The woman at the nail salon assures me this is normal and will go away after a few weeks without polish. Unfortunately, that won’t be happening anytime soon as it’s going to take at least six months for these hideous bruises to grow out.

When my mom said “beauty takes pain”, I don’t think she meant that cute shoes are worth toes that appear to have severe frostbite. It is for this reason that I’ve ultimately decided to hang up my Tory Burch flats for good. Yes, this will probably upset my husband, and yes, I’m finally admitting the shoes (which were my idea in the first place) were a complete and utter waste of two-hundred dollars. But at the end of the day, if you don’t have your big toes, you truly have nothing at all.

And so, if ever I am fortunate enough to have a little girl of my own, each time I accidentally burn her forehead with the curling iron, I will say “Beauty takes pain, honey. But remember…if you don’t have your big toes, you have nothing at all.”

I know…I should totally write a book on parenting. (And use the royalties to buy designer shoes that are actually comfortable.)

****

Main photo by Annie Mole

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They make me look smarter ⁶

I’ve become what I hate.

The last time I typed that sentence, I was creating a caption for a photo which documented one of Jolie’s public shamings. Scott and I, being the twisted and insensitive parents we are, forced her to dress as her archenemy (the squirrel) in front of half a dozen strangers at a local Target. It was not her proudest moment.

“I’ve become what I hate.”

But today as I type these words, I must admit I’m referring to myself. Truly, I have become what I hate.

A person who doesn’t wear glasses that wears glasses.

For those of you who have a hard time with double negative sentences, allow me to translate: Despite having 20/20 vision, this is what I’m wearing today.

They make me feel cool. And smart. And kind of like a hipster, but with better makeup and a more pleasant body odor.

Plus, they were only $12.99.

I’ve been admittedly worried about how Scott would react to my new pair of eyes. He has terrible vision — so terrible he can’t even wear glasses. His only option is custom-made contacts, and he’ll eventually need to travel to England for an experimental surgery that will hopefully correct the rare degenerative eye disorder he suffers from. He’s constantly making comments about how envious he is of my vision — needless to say, my “pretend glasses” could have been a little insulting.

Much to my surprise, when I debuted them this morning, my new look was met with a smile. (And a suggestion that the glasses would look great with a pair of Converse sneakers.)

Scott’s reaction left me feeling much more secure in my decision to rock the fake nerd glasses.

And then I found this Facebook page.

So now there are at least 315 new people out there who hate me. Probably more once they find out I’m also currently wearing a pair of imitation Tom’s shoes.

To these people, I politely curtsey, tip my fake glasses with an ironic smile and say “Don’t hate–congratulate!” Because wearing fake glasses certainly doesn’t make me a bad person — just a semi-douchey one.

So…what are your thoughts on the fake glasses debate? Do you like them? Wear them? Think they are utterly ridiculous? Do you happen to be the founding member of the aforementioned Facebook page? I’m curious to hear your thoughts on the subject.

P.S. Now no one can ever accuse this blog of not focusing on the hard-hitting issues that shape the world we live in. Fake nerd glasses? Totally a current event.