I don’t care what they say. You can judge a book by its cover. Or at least a gift by its wrap. I actually couldn’t care less what’s inside a package. I love the foreplay of an unopened gift, sitting beneath a pine tree, its silver-blue needles glittering their way down. I adore the build, not just “up to Christmas” but in everything. The planning phase, the infatuation, the idea. I love, and always have loved, the idea more than the outcome, with the exception of my children and chocolate chip cookies.

It’s art. Let me say at least that, too. You have a big event, a date, a reunion, you pen in a hair blowout and a makeup application. Meanwhile, no one gives a shit what you’re wearing, if you chose browns and neutrals over the plummy smoky eye because they’re too concerned with their own impressions. Did anyone notice the bald spot, the weight gain, the fourth husband? And, you know what? Yes, and no. They noticed, but they really don’t care, and neither should you. Still, you’ve got a valid point: sometimes, you enjoy the “getting ready” more than the ready.

I’ve been obsessed lately with makeup. I apply it. Phil tells me I don’t need it, that I’m a beautiful woman without any of it, and wearing it makes people think that I have to wear it, that I’m hiding in it. This, for the record, goes into one ear, and out into a blog, because I don’t give two shades of shadow. Women really don’t dress or success for a man. We may acquiesce, second-guess, and—under the influence of alcohol—undress; nonetheless, come morning, we suppress all that we transgressed. And none of it really mattered much anyhow.

Makeup really isn’t about pretty. It’s art. I love makeup for the effects, for the fashion of it, for the trends and the blends. No, I’m not going to surround one eye with a TRIANGLE of Mongolian Yellow shadow any more than I’m going to sport an asymmetrical bob. But, man, there’s just something to be said for pretty packaging. Last year I went “Crafty Christmas” [think newspaper wrapping, burlap, and ephemera, beneath the tree]:

This year, I’m embracing the Swiss Snow Chalet. Think Nordic and overhanging eaves. Also think, “Red, White, and Paper Bags.”

I’m wrapping everything. One book at a time. I’ve sworn off buying utter crap for Christmas and am only purchasing educational toys, books, and toys emphasizing gross and fine motor skills (from bicycles to Montessori trinomial cubes).

I’m also trying to mostly give gifts tied to a specific experience, so it’s not about “the toy” and it’s more about “the event” and time spent together as a family:

- Something train-related for Lucas, with “tickets” to train museum
- Abigail wants swimming lessons, gymnastic class, and a “heavy duty art class.” That, quote, by the by, best all year. So, why not give hints to each lesson? A bathing suit, leotard, and paint palette.
- Trip to feed the Giraffes at the zoo with a stuffed giraffe or giraffe puzzle.
- Planetarium “tickets” with some solar system type toy
- Tea cups, good for an afternoon of Tea
- Monkeys in a box? Print out a bunch of them? For a day at Monkey Joes [A bouncy house destination]
- Baking Gift – wrap muffin pans or mix, and make it a special baking event just for each of them, one on one
- Fishing & Seashore themed gift (have the books)
- Family Pirate Picnic at Pirate’s Cove (bought a Thomas the Train Pirate’s Cove Pirate Ship)
 

It will all go by too fast. The wrapping paper stuffed into a garbage bag, piles of toys to be put away, a mention of who got to open more gifts than the other (despite it being even), then the cleaning, the company, and thankfully, the wine. I love every sip of it, the dress to unimpress clothes, treat bags filled with homemade cookies, hot mulled alcohol in one version or another, meeting parents, meeting friends, remembering names, forgetting rules and yourself, coming, finding, and going… home.

This list is an extension of an earlier post, where I promised to post such a list. So, here it is, my TOTALLY WORTH IT LIST (aka a list of things I’m glad I bought before marriage and babies, when in some cases spending this much would be out of the question… or at the very least a guilt-ridden hide-the-bags fest).

Crate & Barrel Steamer Bar

KitchenAid Mixer
My Steamer Bar
Schweitzer Linens
Every last Hermes Scarf
My cropped white Hudson Jeans
My AG Jeans in “The Fringe” style
My elliptical machine
West Elm Bookshelf
Nikon Lenses
Wusthof Knives
All-Clad Stainless
Really good blowdryer
Fleur de the Rose Bulgare perfume by Creed
Burberry Poncho
An assortment of Purple Label cableknit cashmeres
Celine Black Bag
Intermix black trench coat
Anya Hindmarch Pony Bag
Takashamaya Robe
Black Catherine Malandrino dress
My really good laptop bag that doubles as a… really good bag, period.
RLX Polo sport jacket that makes me feel all mission possible
TJMaxx Special: Ralph Lauren heavy crystal plaid tumblers & barware

Look around your life. What do you STILL get a thrill from having? Orgasms, for the most part, are free, so they don’t count.

Recent purchases I can’t imagine won’t make the list years from now:

Hands down, my holy-shite this is awesome VITAMIX (love love love for velvet soup textures, phenomenal cocktails with that same texture as frozen margarita machines, and smoothies, ice cream, chopped onions!)
Diamond Earrings
The softest lambskin black bag ever
A Gorban painting
My Breville Oven (3 people have slept at my house, left, and ran out to buy one)
And a shitpile of cookbooks
Really good baking pans (Chicago Metallic)
Olio Santo (my favorite olive oil)
Silouette Machine
Much of my MJ Trimming Ribbon collection

NOT WORTH IT
Creams. Any of them. I’d like to be convinced otherwise
La Perla
Leather pants from Scoop
Burberry Coat
The Blahniks, any of them
Any knockoff ever
Wow, not a single pair of shoes, not even my favs

I think it’s surprising what we think will bring us happiness and what actually does. People say that objects don’t give us happiness that lasts, and I’d agree, for the most part. But I will say that some things, actual things, do make us smile daily, leave us feeling confident, pretty, taken care of. And if you can find those things, if they still make you feel, years later, they’re worth keeping. It’s how I feel, most, about my cookbooks and cooking equipment. They are my favorite things.

Phil is already complaining. He’s comparing—dare I say it—WAL-MART’S. “The Wal-Mart here is just not what it is in Austin. Not even close.” Well, it’s not like we’re buying in bulk anyway. ‘Cause this here storage situation ain’t what he thought it was.

I agreed to move into this home, sight unseen. Phil checked it out, sent me video, and assured me that there was “an absurd amount of storage space. More than we have now. And, there’s a great closet for you in the bedroom.” Done. Besides, hello, I lived in Manhattan for most of my adult life.

So, I started packing, and packing, and packing some more. “Are you sure,” I asked as I built another wardrobe box, “that there’s a lot of storage space? Because all these little things add up.”

“Positive. No question.” His statement was, after all, 100% correct—when you strike out the “positive” and “question.”

When Phil surveys our inventory he gets that not-so-fresh look. “What? What?”

“I might have been wrong.” Words worth framing.

“It’s okay. We’ll be fine. Besides my handbags can pass as art in the living room.”

WEEKS LATER…

Phil’s co-worker strolls into Fourbucks, stops to chat it up with me, then spills that Phil’s complaining about closet space. “Listen,” he says, “I told him that even I will admit to having some of my things in our guest room.”
“Exactly! I’m the girl. He does not get to be the girl.”

Our first-world closet situation:
There is one double-decker closet in our bedroom, fit with pull down hampers, belt racks and valet rods, a granite countertop and glass doors for off-season sweater storage, lined jewelry drawers with locks. It’s dreamy, even if it is small. There’s also nowhere in this closet to store any longer items, like dresses. But, steps away are two more closets, where behind sliding mirror doors, are rows of shelving up to the ceiling and hanging space for dresses.

“Down Under” man bar hiding beneath my hemlines

I’m not much into folding things other than workout garb, so he can have all the dressers and all the shelves (except for one… for the workout clothes). As it is, I brought very few pairs of shoes with me, thinking there wouldn’t be room (also, another reason to shop).

There is also a guest bedroom with another full walk-in closet, not as large, but also designed with jewelry drawers, a pull down hamper, shelving, tie racks, you name it. But it’s not in the master bedroom. Phil suggests that I put some of my things in this guest closet along with his things, asking if he can put some of his belongings in the master bedroom closet. Basically, he’s now backtracking and the closet he once was insistent that I take for myself, he now wants a part of.

“Because when I shower in the morning, I want a place to put my stuff.” Yes, it’s called the floor, my friend.

My big-girl-voice response is parboiled down to two words: “Vegetable Drawer.”

“I don’t know how to respond to that.”

I can’t put fruits or asparagus in the vegetable drawer, why? Because that shit will get slimy or rot on me if it’s not within plain view. I’ll completely forget it’s there, rendering it useless. Same goes for my clothes. I need to see them. I need to see everything. Art supplies, neatly on a shelf within a cabinet: yes. Piled one on top of the other in a box? No. Even my pantry needs to be tiered, so I can see each and every item, with the cans in the back up on a riser. The deep freezer is my idea of disorganized hell without a detailed CURRENT LIST, split into left and right columns (representing the respective sides of the freezer) naming each and every item within.

This is one of those things you can’t change about a person. I can’t change the actual mechanics of what type of learner I am. I’m the type who had to re-write class notes several times to learn the material. I am a visual learner and during tests I could actually visualize the area on the page where the information was written. If I can’t see it, I forget it. Sorry, but it’s true.

Yes, that’s exactly why long-distance relationships never quite worked for me. Out of sight, out of mind. Absence will never make my heart grow fonder.

Packing is elevated to a whole new level when half your wardrobe is too big, a quarter too small, half outdated, a portion stained or damaged by pits or wine or the moth problem Phil had in Manhattan (so fcuking gross – he had moths living in his vacuum cleaner bag! And my sweaters have been RUINED because you can’t undo a cashmere hole without looking totally shoddy)…

As I was saying, a quarter too nightclub shorty McSlutTown, and then the majority of clothes that do fit and are in fine condition but that you simply, for whatever reason, just don’t wear… Plus the piles you’ve had stacked on the floor full of comfy college clothes, memory clothes, sweatshirts from old beaus, college orientation shirts, plus all the freebie shirts from conferences and concerts where you said, “I’ll wear it around the house or to work out in.”

It is time, fellow American (and Italian, German, Swedish, Malaysian, and Israeli) readers to purge yourselves of these lies. Time to release “I will” and make it “I do.” I do wear those shoes. I refuse to care about who the designer is or dwell on how costly it was. If I haven’t worn it in the past year, it is OUT.

There will be absolutely no period panties, no bras with broken down elasticity, no shirts or shorts or (cringe) boxers for sleep, and no gym socks that aren’t pure white. I will only sleep, forevermore, in clothes sold in the lounge wear and sleep department of stores. As for the workout clothes, if it’s uncomfortable, it’s outta here. Also, as a general rule, if costume designers and stylists wouldn’t dare put that sweater on Diane Keaton or Rene Russo (particularly in The Thomas Crown Affair), then be done with it! Nothing says I don’t give a shit about myself than slightly yellowed whites or even the smallest hole, so get to it!

Because really, this is what happens when you grow up and have children. You no longer have the luxury of shopping with friends. It’s rare, and it used to be a given. Weekends were spent weaving in and out of boutiques, mostly browsing, but definitely bonding. Talking in relationship redux while commenting on lipstick shades. Now, we resort to text messages, where I stand naked-ish in a fitting room awaiting a reply.

When did shopping stop being a group activity? When we’re young, we have our mothers, next our friends. Eventually a boyfriend who slips into the fitting room mostly to grab a handful and eyeful, hoping to entice you to “do it” quiet-like. Then the saleswoman asks if you need another size, and with him flashing you now, you ask her for something bigger, enjoying the irony. Soon, we’ll rely on our kids and buy anything that might be included on a colorful cereal box—anything loud, graphic, or sparkly.

And, yes. With regard to the photos below, those are BAGS, not of the shopping variety. I was running on empty, and if I were the praying type, I’d get down on both knees and beg that I get some decent sleep and even better creams.

My girl texting conversation below:

STEPHANIE: LeighaLove, with what do I wear such Kardashian pants? It’s not as easy as you’d think! How about this? And FYI, they are olive green pants. Leopard belt, black thin blouse, brown shoe.

J Brand Cargo Pants with Zippers

LEIGHA: ummm holy shit skinny girl! i love it! Such a a cute combo. I gotta go to nordies rack and see if they have those at my store.
STEPHANIE: Okay, what about this? Way too cougar trying way too hard, right? Yay or no way?

Sky (Think Housewives of Cougartown County)

LEIGHA: No way Jose! Love the color but not the style of dress, specifically the butt thigh band. I would pass.

STEPHANIE: Shoulder pads?? Buy?

LEIGHA: Hmm, it’s interesting. Nice little waist btw ;)
LEIGHA: I think I’d be for it as a dress, but I’m undecided as a shirt.
STEPHANIE: It’s $10
LEIGHA: Might as well then!
STEPHANIE: Though I’d have to spend a fortune getting 2 hairdos if I wear as dress…

STEPHANIE: Way too short. Not a chance!
LEIGHA: Just a few inches. What’s the blue tank there?
STEPHANIE: Getting that blue Rebecs Taylor tank. [shown way below, once I'm home]

STEPHANIE: To wear with jean short?
LEIGHA: Totes
STEPHANIE: Really?
LEIGHA: As in ‘yes,’ good w shorts, or over bathing suit

STEPHANIE: Ignore tank underneath
LEIGHA: I like that

STEPHANIE: Green
LEIGHA: Pretty! I like the neckline and waist. How much?
STEPHANIE: 60 beans

LEIGHA: Are we in danger of your boob popping out
STEPHANIE: Yuh
LEIGHA: I love the long green dress. Just have to say again.

LEIGHA: I enjoy that
LEIGHA: I have a Rachel Roy kinda like that. I wore out when you were here
LEIGHA: Maybe pop an orange, turquoise, or studded belt on that.

STEPHANIE: YO! WTF?
…
[ INSERT 28 MINUTES HERE, WHERE I REFUSE TO LEAVE THE STORE, WAITING + WAITING]
…
LEIGHA: I was on hike. Lots of pics to look over, shit!!!
LEIGHA: Skirt and tank r cute
LEIGHA: Brown shirt dress looks comfy and like you
LEIGHA: Brown, blue and pink dress are all so-so for me.
LEIGHA: Orange floral is pretty, good for a wedding. U look great in it but I’m not obsessed
LEIGHA: My faves are long maxi. Blue print short dress and skirt combo.
LEIGHA: Ew to that green sequin tank thing
STEPHANIE: Ha, ok. Blue tie dye dress? Tealish skirt/ strapless thing? Eh
LEIGHA: Cute to tie dye. I’m on fence about strapless thing
STEPHANIE: Then I will pass. That shit always gives me flapjacks.
STEPHANIE: So, no to this?

LEIGHA: Fence. Your call.
STEPHANIE: YES! It’s so so light.
LEIGHA: It has pockets and would be a good day dress. Do u have anything like it?
LEIGHA: Get it girl. You’re sassy!

STEPHANIE: $545 later…
STEPHANIE: Now, what, oh what, to return?
STEPHANIE: ooh, here’s top I didn’t show you

LEIGHA: Classy and fun, could even belt it.
STEPHANIE: What would I do without you? I’d have more money, for sure. Though I’d walk around with sandbag ass and sequins, so my bumps thank you.

[ FYI: I did NOT buy the shoulderpad top, the blue tranny dress, either of the tie dye ensembles, nor the flapjack boob killer skirt/dress. Said no to the orange flowers, the gray stripes, and I'm now returning the green maxi dress because Phil says I look like I'm in the army. "What can I say? I'm just not into camo." Keeping the sequin off the shoulder sweater, the bright blue patterned dress, the very light splashy dress, the very last blue tank (shown with cream pant). Then I made the mistake of "just looking" through the shoe department, and snatched up the softest leather golden ballet flats with a chunk of sparkle on the toe. Ah, to waste time and play while the husband's away. Girl bliss.] Now there’s packing to be done and even more girls to start missing! I know NO ONE in Florida (ya, know, aside from my mother, 45 minutes north, and my sissy, 3 hours away).

I’m sad to be leaving, but I’m also excited for the new. Making the most of the mixed.
 

Sent via text to my style muse and BFF Leigha. More to come!