Over the years I’ve cultivated a collection of incredibly functional and covetable handbags. From luscious deerskin leather to the crisp and crackle of the distressed Botkier, I’ve taken great pains to assemble this collection. And while I’ve had my one-night stands and torrid affairs with some of the handbags pictured, I do have my reliable favorites (two of which aren’t pictured). Photographing and cataloging bags, which normally reside in cloth, gives me an idea of what I have, what I no longer need, and more importantly, what gaps need to be filled. It’s only until today did I realize that for someone who’s Type-A, I don’t have many structured bags. But I do love my saturated hues and black, brown and navy mainstays. And I’m a firm believer in giving away bags you no longer love and used. This year, I’ve gifted Coach, Hayden Harnett and a few other old clutches.

Pictured: YSL Downtown, Botkier Trigger, Rebecca Minkoff clutch, Marc Jacobs satchel, Hayden Harnett’s Havana Hobo, Derek Lam clutch, Foley & Corinna (mini), vintage beaded clutch. Not pictured: Miu Miu deerskin bag, Prada tote.

Post was inspired by Brook and Lyn’s Blog

To say that this past week has been exhausting would be an understatement. I abandoned my workout routine, ate foods I’d rather not share, and have been morose and panicked — all because my poor kitty has been ill. Luckily, with a change in veterinarians (burn in hell, Animal Kind!) and a proper diagnosis, Sophie appears to be on the mend, and some semblance of my former self is finally returning.

As I type, I’m watching Sophie attack my sneaker with vigor.

To usher in the warm morning, an invitation for spring, I’ve fixed a homemade breakfast of scrambled eggs, oat bread slathered in Irish butter, and a tall glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice. I took my coffee on the stoop and filled boxes with the discarded. Curtains drawn, I opened the windows to feel the crisp air filter in, and lit candles throughout the apartment.

As longtime readers of my site know, my obsession with candles knows no bounds. And lately, I’ve sampled spicy and tangy versions, and my latest au du jour is the Nest Wasabi Pear Candle ($32, 50-hour burn time). A luxe blend of Anjou pear and ozonic watery notes infused with the special essence of wasabi, the subtle spicy scent warms my abode and I’m thrilled to relay that the candle is free from the cruel funneling situation. An even, long burn and a luscious soothing scent make this delicious illume one worth coveting.

Full Disclosure: Sample provided for potential feature/review.

People always leave. For years I clung close to that axiom — those three words that weighed and tangled and gnawed and numbed. I took those words for shelter, created my own little house of hurt, and it’s only of late that I felt emboldened to cut each letter from each word to then discard them like waste. Because I want to believe that sometimes people stay. Or sometimes they come back. They crawl out of the river, ants spilling out of the neck wounds, eyes red and apologetic. We’re ready now, they say. Please don’t be the difficult woman we once knew you to be. This time, they beg, let us all the way in.

Tricky.

Today, I happened upon South African artist William Kentridge’s haunting collection at the MOMA. As I moved from etching to engraving to film cycle, I felt art filling the dark, uncertain places. And I stood before this picture of a man consoling his beloved in old age, and I ached. I saw the sorrow of them apart and it felt like moths in old closets, that familiar place. And I witnessed a man drowning in himself because of himself, and it was as if the images in insolation — apart from what Kentridge intended them to be — were a storyboard of the way I’ve kept close guard of my ability to love, completely.

George Eliot once wrote, There is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and healed, to have despaired and have recovered hope. I’ve had my great love and my great sorrow, and the bandages have come off, the needle slipped from my arm, and I’ve leaped out of the confines of my chair to speak of this Odyssean journey from myself back to myself. And sometimes I feel like some cheap koan, one hand clapping and the lot, when I shout that I am here! Right here!!! Cover me with your jacket and call me sweet girl. But there is only quiet and me getting lost in it.

That’s all.

Believe me when I say that I just wept a unicorn. I’m a little delirious so forgive me any nonsensical semantic digressions, but after four days of anxiety, stress, rage and heartache — all because Sophie, my wanton minx, suffered from a stomach ailment and has finally recovered — I’m partying in my apartment like it’s the dot-com, blow-snorting halcyon days of 1999.

Cue the days of Urban Fetch, catered lunches and a time when Dominican blowouts ruled my lifestyle! Back in the day I spent crazy coin on hair products, suffered the criminal hour-long, roller-set drying situation, and didn’t think twice about beating someone with a wrench and a pair of pliers should they suggest a drugstore brand for my coarse curls.

I MEAN, HONESTLY. I played the Aussie and Pantene mind games. I endured the curl crunch and epic shine lies. I had a watch; I knew what time it was. For years I would only seek out the most expensive products, for I had earnestly equated quality to price. And while I was in a state of delusion, hair brands reformulated and lately I’m starting to see a sea change — respectable hair products at enviable prices.

Recently, I had the opportunity to sample Sunsilk’s new Hydra TLC Styling Creme ($5.99) — one of ten products co-created with Parisian runway hair stylist, Teddy Charles. Formulated with milk protein and honey extract, the creme seeks to infuse moisture into dry hair. First off, I’m smitten with the coconut, beachcomber scent and the instant sheen it provides my hair. Although the directions call for using a small portion on wet hair, I’ve found that midday touch-ups are equally delicious. I’m in dire need of a haircut and I love how the creme made my hair feel luscious and smooth.

So if you’re desperate for moisture and sheen without charging your life away, I absolutely recommend Sunsilk’s Hydra TLC.

Full Disclosure: Sample was provided for potential feature/review. Sunsilk press event photos (including Teddy Charles!) were snapped by Jamie Beck of From Me to You.

Snapped by the intrepid Sarah Conley

There you go again, rearranging the furniture. Shaking your way through the wombs. No one told you that love adheres — it’s gruesome that way; how it cleaves and clings and leaves you like wreckage. We had our pitchforks, hunting dogs and strange incantations; we were determined to pry you from misery. That summer you clung to the steering wheel of the blue car, stop this, and drove it into the river stop this, now. We found you covered in leeches and you mouthed that you had all of this pain but didn’t know where to put it. Where do you put pain when it’s the one thing that refuses to leave? Our exhales were overture. We yanked the leeches from your neck. Something in you made us temporarily human.

We can barely endure. A mouthful of air sickens us; we can’t locate the calculators. All we have is our hands and everything to compute. We confess: you frighten us. You come like swallows, like sermon, interrupting our sleeping world.

Look: we don’t love like flowers. Make us numb. Give us our white jackets, flickering lights and pills under the tongue. String up syringes like white lights; we fasten our eyes to the light and await the pin prick. We sometimes died in our living rooms this way. Our bodies a ticking anesthetic. We asked you to come quietly, gently, gently. But you had to ascend like ether, please stop this, crack open the dead land that was our house you’re disturbing the furniture, the furniture is — disturbed, and arrive like birth. Or burial. The furniture is restless; it did not anticipate all that you have done. There was a word called horror.

We held your sleeping body underwater. You woke and writhed and pounded the sides of the bathtub. Like bombs. We timed this. Sixty seconds. Ninety. Now minus then. How long would it take? Quiet, please. Vengeance made a massacre of our hearts.

O girl, this: that we’ve loved, within us, not that one person yet to come, but all the weltering brood; not some single child, but the father who like mountains-ruins within us; and the dried-up riverbed of former mothers-;

We loved you like forest but wanted to burn the trees. We were bereft. Listen: the trees exist. We break branches. We cinder. We listen to your dead heart, still beating.

Typically you’ll hear me espouse the glories of clay. Slather it on, burrow down deep, hoover out all the dirt and impurities — this is the work of a clay mask, and for people like me who have combination skin, we take our clay like sacrament. However, amidst the circus of Fashion Week and the stockpiling of work-related tasks, I noticed my skin had lost its luster. It had become dull, lifeless, in dire need of a wake-up call, luxe style.

To that end, I’m having a torrid love affair with Philosophy. From the epic, irreplaceable Amazing Grace shower scrub to the Unconditional Love gel bath to the luscious Calm Me lavender lotion, I simply fall in love with every single product Philosophy produces (except for the exfoliating pads, which in retrospect didn’t make a marked difference in my complexion, but I digress), and the Hope Springs Eternal Deep Sea Revitalizing Mask ($25) is the shiny new kid on the block. Formulated with natural marine extract rich in antioxidants, minerals from the deep sea, and sea salt, your skin is protected, revitalized, conditioned and gently exfoliated. While Belize may be eons away, I can attest to how this mask makes my skin feel, encapsulated into a single word, frolic. Fresh-faced and cool, I pined for wave-splashing and sun-bleached shores.

Today I celebrated three years of being awake. I had a whole day mapped out for myself, which included a store-bought pie, a quick workout and a great deal of solitude. I wouldn’t have imagined that I’d spend the great part of my day in an animal hospital, weeping over my cat. Overnight she became incredibly ill and even as I type, I pause, look up, look around, just to make sure she’s okay.

Four years ago, New Year’s Day, Sophie arrived in my home and I was recovering from a horrific hangover. Here was my new cat hiding in the closet, frightened, and I was lying on my bathroom floor with the shakes. Wishing for silence. And for a moment I wondered if I had made a mistake — how would it be possible to take care of a living thing when I was tumbling downward, disintegrating?

Four years later, I find myself frightened in another way. I had begun to become a person who loved, so much so that the thought of loss is unimaginable. Here I was in the vet’s office while my cat was writhing, mewing and hissing, and I shook and cried because I couldn’t do anything to undo her fear or the pain that caused it. I guess that’s what it’s like to love something more than yourself, when the possibility of it being gone or hurt gives you more pain than never having loved it at all.

And although I have so much work to do and I ache and worry and pace, today feels good, auspicious even, because I can feel. I guess that’s what sobriety brings you — closer to yourself.

Now if only Sophie would eat something.

Oversized shearling, tailored overcoats, sleek over-the-knee boots, silhouettes for military uniforms and cadet girls — every single piece from Burberry Prorsum’s AW 2010 collection is covet-worthy. Lacking the pomp and circumstance of many runway shows, Burberry’s collection was understated, severe, and fundamentally cool. Mix your curve-clinging dress with epaulet-adorned jackets and ultra-femme clutches. For me, the clothes are my New York — functional, tailored and chic.

Over the years my look has evolved. From collegiate prep to Tibetan yogi to flirty floral dresses draped on Anthropologie models (Anthro is headlining the Never Again Tour 2010 due to its poor quality wares), I’ve determined that I will always have a deep affection for the tailored and the preppy, but with an ironic twist. A splash of color, an asymmetrical silhouette, and the random eclectic shoe; I’m craving clean cuts with an element of surprise and edge.

Right now I’m obsessed with jeweled tones — blue, unctuous greens — and architectural jackets. So while I’ll be hitting the piggy and saving the pennies for just a scrap of Burberry fabric (or more realistically, a J Crew option), as I grow older I’m focused on acquiring investment pieces to weave into my wardrobe. Enter Scatola Sartoriale.

A high-end designer showroom tucked away in New York and Los Angeles, you’ll find designers like Vivienne Westwood amongst Scatola’s fashion-forward eponymous collection. However, I discovered this delicious black leather jacket at Curve, tucked away in the back of the store in a lone sale rack. I layered this over a rather snug Preen dress (the dress made its way back to the racks), and the supple leather to the sharp cut won raves and gasps from the girls.

I HAD TO OWN THIS JACKET.

It’s odd that I haven’t owned a leather jacket in years, but this is one I adore. The sleeve zipper detail, the concealed bodice zip, the luscious leather and form-fitting look is perfection when paired with dresses to denim. So while I’ll always be drawn to the cashmere cardi and button-downs, infusing items of interest into your wardrobe keeps it fresh and fabulous.

Burberry Photo Credit: Style.com

There are days when I wake up, glance at my face in the bathroom mirror and scurry back to bed. How is it possible to fall asleep and wake to facial devastation?! Stress making a cameo on your complexion? As someone who has combination skin, who’s in her early thirties and prone to stress and an occasional lack of sleep, there are days when the Exxon situation has cruelly made a comeback.

Enter St. Ives. You’ve heard espouse on the glories of their shower wash and scrubs. St. Ives is one of your best buys on the market when it comes to bath & body products, and with the introduction of their new facial cleanser I’m thrilled to be able to evangelize such an affordable, efficacious brand.

If you’re blemish-prone and have sensitive skin, run to your local drugstore and snag the new Naturally Clear Green Tea Cleanser. Formulated with salicylic acid and natural green tea, your breakouts will experience a dire beat-down while the redness will be kept at bay.

Of note, I ONLY use this St. Ives cleanser when I have breakouts, or on the days when I know that I haven’t been my skin’s best friend. Since I don’t have oily skin, the product can leave my combo/normal skin a bit tight at times, so keep this in mind. This isn’t my daily wash, and I tend to mix this into my gel cleanser regimen (remember combo girls: NO CREAM CLEANSERS!).

However, if you’re in the market for the wunderkind of acne wash, hit your local drug store for St. Ives.

Full Disclosure: Sample was provided for potential feature/review.

For nearly twelve years I’ve been involved in the online currency of conversation. From tapping my feet because I suffered through an AOL dial-up connection in 1999 while I was building my luxury resale commerce boutique to power selling on eBay, to chat rooms and instant messages (buddy lists!) to immersing in the dot-com excesses of town cars, venture capitalists, DoubleClicks, Urban Fetches, and catered lunches, to launching, editing and publishing an online literary journal, to project managing online platforms for a major media giant to the budget-less world of book marketing where we tried to make a dollar out of fifty cents to Twitter, online attacks by mean girls, a love hate affair with Facebook, to a job where words like augmented reality, Tweetstakes and Tweet-Ups are par for the course, for most of my adult life I’ve been fascinated by the internet.

The web has made it possible for me to build a career and a passion when there was none. It allowed me to connect with readers, writers and newfound friends all over the world, and it brought me love, friendships and a virtual circle of people who keep me laughing through the dark days. It gave me an outlet to yell out into the ether when sobbing into pillows failed to give me shelter, and it’s slowly giving shape to the strange, wonderful place my prose desperately wants to go. Sometimes I forget there was a world before our virtual one, and I can scarcely remember what it was like to have limited means of connection and expression. There is so much I love about the web and all the gifts my use of it has given me — an audience, friends, a virtual family, a means of expression and a wonderful job — but there is much that has beginning to gnaw at me in the worst way.

Yesterday, a friend directed me to a blog post written by a woman who documented her experience of full-on wax accompanied by an ornate decoration, replete with revealing photos — one of which had her coy and calculating in front of a camera giving the thumbs-up sign while pulling down her pants. There is an infamous fame whore blogger who trades on cheap stereotypes, and consistently exhibits shameless, unethical behavior; her escapades all accessible via a mouse-click. There’s a blogger who plays the pay-for-play game so hard one would think she’s choking on quarters. And all those posts she pens come without disclosure and are gushing raves of all the free, undisclosed trips she takes, meals she eats. There are marketers who tell you a trick to gain traffic is to be controversial (piss off those mommy bloggers! spout hateful things about overweight people on your blog!) There are, what my dear friend Amber calls, cloggers — bloggers who publish press releases and praise for the shiny, free things and harass publicists and stomp their little feet until they get their way. And from the traffic by any means necessary to people who say the word brand but don’t even know what it means, I found myself wholly frustrated with people who have no shame in their game.

Granted, this is to be expected, right? For every great thing about the web there’s a grave error in judgement, a shill whore in the making. The blogger pining for their fifteen minutes. And I guess we all crave the attention in varying degrees otherwise we wouldn’t tweet, status, blog, but I find myself trying to remember that the off and online worlds shouldn’t be markedly different. That there should a line, a sense of fair play and honesty amidst the occasional missteps. That because something is out there perhaps it’s not okay for everyone to read it. I don’t know. I keep trying to sort this out because while I love the web, there are things and people within it that make my blood boil. I find myself staring at a computer screen wondering why a smart, savvy woman would put pictures of her vagina on the internet. Are you really doing it for your love of the service, or is it a ploy to pump up the page views? Do we care that the web doesn’t have a shelf life or expiration? That you are always searched and found?

We’re in the business of optimization — tagging our content, dropping in keywords here and there, categorizing our posts. I routinely tell my clients how they can best position their business and brand in the online space. But I sometimes feel this seeping into my personal life. I never used to care about my stats, but I can’t help but check my analytics and feel momentarily validated when I reach nearly fourteen thousand uniques a month (WHO CARES, PEOPLE?!). What is that line between caring about your presence and falling into the obsessive optimization game?

Do we worry that at one point all the things we loved about the web become a chore, a business, a Quantcast statistic and an authority? A clock ticking past fifteen. I don’t know, but I invite you to tell me your thoughts about the online space. Why you’re in it, what you get out of it, and what scares you about where it could go…

I’ve tried a lot of those faux fruity waters. The dastardly sugar-laden concoctions that promise anything from protein to a brand new car. At the end of the day artificially-flavored and colored water gives me rage blackouts, and I’d much rather squeeze a strawberry into a glass of tap water and call it a day.

However, amidst the madness of fashion week, where bottled and cardboard boxes of water are hurled every which way, I had the opportunity to sample Hint Water and it was AMAZING PANTS. Available at Whole Foods, Ralphs, Stop and Shop, Amazon.com, Hint offers a line of ten delicious drinks, free of sweeteners and preservatives. I’m desperately trying to ween off my sugar addiction as much as possible (clearly, baked goods are not part of this plan), and I loved the crisp taste, the hint of pomegranate and kiwi, and the more flavorful alternative to water that isn’t wince-inducing.

That having been said, I do have very mixed feelings about supporting bottled water. I’m 75% green with the products I buy, the food I eat, and how I maintain my home, but I’ve honestly been struggling with bottled water. Although I love the refreshing taste of Hint Water, it’s still bottled water. I know of its ills, how perilous it is for the environment, and I’m trying so hard to curb this very bad habit and stick to my Sigg.

Update: I’ve actually been giving this some thought. Although I LOVED Hint, clearly the best option would be to drink your fab tap water and add any luscious flavorings and fruits that you love.

Full disclosure: Sample provided for potential feature/review.