Rainy Day Motorcycle Gang

My motorcycle gang, The Hell's Belles, does not ride on rainy days.

Humidity + Helmet = Insanely Bad Hair.  I'm truly a math genius, y'all.

If we did ride in the rain, however, I imagine we'd all love these Wellington boots from Valentino.

The motorcycle shaped boot in black speaks to the Hell raiser in us and the twee bow speaks to the lady.  This is truly the only boot appropriate for a Hell's Belle to wear on her Chopper on the way to discuss The Help at her monthly book club meeting.  

Don't forget, it's your turn to bring the deviled eggs.  And of course you'll use the lovely Blue Ridge Rooster Deviled Egg Plate that belonged to your grandmother and NOT a Tupperware platter like Mary did at the last meeting.  Bless her heart.

Red, White, and Shoe: Jack Rogers

Happy Independence Day!  Today wraps up my four day tribute to American shoes in honor of the Fourth of July weekend.

If you live in the South like I do, you’ll notice that when the thermostat begins to make it’s treacherous trip upwards to the 90s every lady breaks out her Jack Rogers Navajo Sandals.

Since the Palm Beach shoe company first put it into production in the 1960s, the Navajo Sandals have been hand-made by cobblers in Florida.

The Original Palm Beach Navajo Sandal in Bone

I do not own a pair of these sandals.  Maybe I’m missing out, all I know is I hate the feeling of the thong between my toes.  I always end up bleeding and crying to anyone who will listen about how I hate flip flops and how the inventor of the thong sandal needs to burn in hell.  But I can admit that I am probably the exception to the rule because women all over the country seem drawn to the ease and comfort of the Navajo sandal.

I’m sure much of the love affair with Jack Rogers was influenced by Jackie Kennedy Onassis who was often seen sporting her Jacks while on vacation on the Cape.

Jackie wearing her Navajo Jacks

I suppose if I were a first lady and had to stuff my feet into boring, sensible shoes all day, every day, I too might like the opportunity that thong sandals provide to let my toes breath.

Luckily for folks like myself who are fussy picky, Jack Rogers does offer sandals that aren’t in the thong style.  The Capri Sandals give the wearer the look and feel of the Jack Rogers Navajo Sandals without the bleeding toes at the end of the day.

Capri Sandals

The line has expanded beyond just the traditional Navajo flat to include wedges and espadrilles.

Palm Beach Mid Wedge

Marbella Espadrille Wedge

So, there we have it, fabulous shoes from the good old U-S-A.  Who knew we Americans could be so chic?  (Um, I did!)

There is No Such Thing as “Parisian” Chic

You know what Paris?  You’re beautiful, we get it.  You have the Eiffel Tower.  The Louvre is the home to the Mona Lisa, Death of the Virgin, and the Venus de Milo.

And okay, Paris is also the home of the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré where you can stroll the narrow avenue and stop by the home of Hermès and more importantly until 2009 Christian Lacroix, darling (and yes, I will cop to owning one Lacroix scarf I bought entirely so I could fling it across my neck while exclaiming, “it’s Lacroix darling, La-CROIX.”)

My non-Parisian style drinking icons.

All that aside Paris does NOT corner the market on chic and dammit, it’s time someone told Paris so.

I’m currently reading Parisian Chic: A Style Guide by Ines de la Fressange  and overall, I love it, it’s cute, it’s positive and I’m enjoying it immensely.

Seriously, it's a fun read, go buy it!

That said, I gotta be honest so far I’ve learned that Parisian women:
1.  Idolize Jackie Kennedy Onassis (American) and Audrey Hepburn (Brit)
2.  Revere Breakfast at Tiffany’s as über-chic (American movie about a New York Socialite as played by a British actress and based not all that well on a story by American author, and fellow Southerner, Truman Capote who is now so easily confused with Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and okay fine, the french designer, Hubert de Givenchy, did the wardrobe for Hepburn for the movie, but Californian, Edith Head was the costume supervisor)
3.  Speaking of Tiffany (jewelry store, not 80s pop starlet), it seems Parisians appreciate the brand’s elegant simplicity (founded by Charles Lewis Tiffany of Connecticut)
4.  And lastly, according to Ma'am de la Fressange, Parisian women sport Converse sneakers as their “casual” chic shoe when trying to appear as though they are “not trying too hard” (Converse, a Massachusetts company founded in the early 1900s by Marquis Mills Converse of New Hampshire).

Now, I’m not all about patriotic fervor.  Chic knows no nationality.  I’m also pretty sure that French women, much like the rest of us, do get fat.  And there is no damn shame in that.

Women are chic because they want to be chic.  Not because they live in Paris, New York, Milan, or London.  But it does make it easy to market a book.  After all, I bought into it.  And I'm glad I did.  Tongue-in-cheek review notwithstanding.

The Reluctant Southerner Enters Her Third Decade

Typically, I am about as badass as a baby chimpanzee cuddling a kitten.  And I mean a sweet chimpanzee, not one of those rabid zombie chimpanzees from the movie 28 Days Later (not to be confused with Sandra Bullock playing a rabid drunk in 28 Days). 

I’m a reluctant Southerner.  If you look at a map and then fold it in half, Maryland is ABOVE the fold.  As such I consider myself a mid-atlantic-er.  But now that I live in North Carolina it’s time I call a (kate) spade a spade and admit defeat. 

Anyway, where was I?  I think I had a point.  Ah yes.  I hit 30 this year and with it I was going to become one of those women who accept the aging process and I was going to learn how to gracefully style myself in an adult conservative southern way.  My only whimsy would be garish Lily Pulitizer pinks and greens worn on the weekend with a cardigan thrown over my shoulders to protect myself from the chilly 90 degree humid weather.  This was going to be my fate.

And then I bought red jeans.

Red jeans with Camilla Skovgaard Patterned Saw Pumps via Instagram.

Fuck 30.  I wore my red man-eating jeans unabashedly.  I didn’t do anything of interest in them.  I went to work.  I went to a jewelry party.  I ate a liverwurst sandwich while reading Elle outside of a local deli.  But I did it with (metaphorical) balls. 

Lily will have to wait.  Forty is a short ten years away.  Maybe by then my style will have mellowed to Palm Springs casual.

These, however, these I see in my new badass, chimp cuddling kitten-free, future:

Camilla Skovgaard Spear Stiletto Mules