While the benefits of living in the greatest city in the world (I usually refrain from speaking in absolutes, but I’m sorry, this is a reference to New York) are generally outweighed by any of the grossies indicative of setting up shop in this oft bug ridden/rodent infested/hood rat filled h(e)aven that I’ve come to call home, very few will argue that our ninth month long winters are just downright… bad…as in horror and dread inducing awful (So, yes, LA, you take the cake there. But while you’re basking in the glow of your teeny weenie win, please note the East Coast’s collective sardonic applause preceded by its snarky roll(s) of the eyes. Tupac, forgive me. Adult ADHD, go away).  And really, I’m ONLY KIDDING anyway because, truth be told, I LOVE the good old City of Angels, and I’m merely making the point (rather long windily, as I often do) that New York will always be home to me, if home were a really eclectic, fashionable, plethora of igloos laid out on a grid system and sustaining polar bear like habitability for the duration of a human pregnancy.

It stands to reason, then, that after spending a quarter of a century trying to strike a balance (well, I mean 80/20) between remaining fashionable and incorporating items into my wardrobe that serve to prevent hypothermia (notable essentials include: neon beanies, leather gloves, wool mittens — one pair that’s even strewn together by yellow wool, containing jet black letters that spell out T-A-X-I in a vertical line beneath the palm, making for a garment that literally duals as a cab hailer — long johns, rubber soles, moon boots, et. al), even I’ve contemplate taking, like, a half of a century premature retirement and boarding my broom to a beachside home in Florida, with nothing but Ray Ban aviators, denim cut offs and tanning oil in tote.

While that’s not feasible just yet (Mostly because, I should probably turn twenty five and a half  before succumbing to Botox and bingo nights), I wanted to experiment with the idea of parlaying an occasional mood board into the mix, especially since I’m pretty sure that you’re sick to death of seeing me in various forms of strategically posed ‘candids’ walking down Third Avenue.  If spring is going to show up at the last second this year (surprise, surprise – you mean it’s nine degrees in New York in mid April?! No…), we can at least be inspired to get warm weather ready with some of the images that I’ve been catatonically staring at musing over lately.

Enjoy!!

Ritz Carlton: Puerto Rico [Headband] Missoni [T-Shirt] Alexander Wang [Shorts] Urban Outfitters [Sunnies] Ray Ban ["Camera Bag Purse] Via Buia

Beverly Hills: [Sunnies]: Tom Ford [Silk Tank] Pinky Otto [Harems] Tibi [Watch] Cartier [Bracelets] Cartier [Flats] Chanel

I am not, nor have I ever pretended to be, a relationship expert.  In fact, at times, I’ve even noticed the more rational side of my brain (if there were such a thing) interrogating my subconscious (in a very Juan Martinez like tone, striking the perfect chord between sarcastic probing/volatile, accusatory badgering), asking, “Could you possibly imagine what life would be like if you were in a relationship with, well,

…. you?!”

And, the answer is, of course, a resounding, candid, quick kick to the stomach style “NO!” because hey, let’s face it, I would never put up with me.  Or, at least, me the way that I used to be.  So, it stands to reason, then, that I’m very much a work in progress.  And, to all of my wonderful, considerate, concerned friends who are reading this right now, rushing to send me texts of validation and complimentary words in an attempt to ward off what could turn into a very quick, ugly spiral into the land of self depreciation (because we all know that that’s a Hotel California type of a land, you know, programmed to receive, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave), to them, I say, thank you, but it’s really okay.

While I know that I’m a good person and a good friend, I’m equally aware of the fact that I can be [somewhat of a] pain in the ass girlfriend. And, I know, definitively, that I can’t be the only one of us out there (high maintenance ladies/naggers/excessive winers/demanders/facebook personal investigator types — whatever your issue is, you might just fall right alongside me under the all consuming purview of pain in the ass.)

Recently, upon the recommendation of my BFF/soulmate/kindred spirit, JDawg, I picked up the book, “The Five Love Languages,” covering the entire read (complete with customary marginal notes and OCD color coordinated highlighting) on a recent flight to Puerto Rico.  And, lest you have any doubts, I’m actually not a fifty-year-old woman having a no holds barred mid-life crisis upon waking up to realize that a quarter of my time on the planet has dissipated into nothing more than a stagnant, stale memory of a hopefully once scolding hot flame; that is to say, I’m not trying to reinvigorate any lost spark.

Still, I’ve come to believe that a relationship should be cultivated in the way that one might, say, invest in a career that he/she is extremely passionate about. To best elucidate on that concept, I just feel the need to reference some particularly poignant 8 Mile lyrics.  ”Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted, in one moment, would you capture it or just let it slip? Yo.”

I’m talking that type of raw, hungry, unstoppable determination that you know you’d put forth if someone handed you a microphone and a pair of Gaga alligator heels, and said, “Now, become a rockstar.  Blow up or…don’t.  Your choice.”  Well, similarly, The Five Love Languages details ways in which to nurture your relationship in what I, and many others (it’s a New York Times Best Seller) feel is a revolutionary, relatable approach.  And, at least at one point, didn’t your relationship, and your partner, epitomize everything you ever wanted in someone?

Written by Gary Chapman, an anthropologist who has studied various languages/forms of communication that have existed throughout time, the book focuses on identifying your own love language and subsequently learning how to speak your partner’s love language(s) as well; according to Chapman, a person’s unique vernacular can fall into any one of five categories: (1) consistent, kind words of affirmation, (2) quality time,  (3) gift giving (4) acts of service (5) physical touch.

What’s my language?  Well, it’s unquestionably option number three –- gift giving.  Present me with a Birkin, and we’re really onto something here.

Kidding!!

No, mine is actually option number two — quality time.  In my opinion, the first step of the process is to determine your own love lingo, because once both you and your significant other are speaking it fluently, you’ll be a much happier/sweeter/more pleasant person to be around.  Then, you move on to becoming proficient in your mate’s language, as well.  So, for now, let’s use my language as the primary example, which, as previously mentioned, is gift giving quality time. My fiancé and I live between two cities; he’s a self-professed workaholic, and I’ve been in law school throughout the majority of our relationship.  That leaves very little time “us” time.  And, in truth, I really wouldn’t have it any other way because I enjoy being independent and having time to dedicate to my own life/career aspirations/other close relationships — and so does he.  But of course, my relationship is extremely important to me, as well, so I always want to do my part to ensure that it’s as strong as it can possibly be. As I’ve matured and placed the focus less on myself and more on us, I’ve tried to appreciate this union, if you will, for the enormous blessing that it is, and in doing so, to move further away from the spectrum of pain in the ass and more towards the goal of great partner. To accomplish this, it’s important to actively invest, nurture, and cultivate things on a daily basis in the way that one would work to keep that previously mentioned rockstar career thriving.

Planning trips to new places is a great way to carve out and reserve quality time together.  Anthony and I are fortunate in the sense that we both enjoy travelling, so this is generally how we escape from our individual day to day obligations for awhile, reserving special moments that allow us to talk meaningfully, relax, unwind and to share a new adventure together.  Filling up the memory bank just a little bit further, it serves to strengthen and continuously nurture our relationship. It’s not really about where we go, or how long we’re there for; it’s about the fact that we actively chose to do something together, foregoing everything else and just focusing on us for a few days.

So, once again, what was supposed to be a post about fashion has now evolved into something else — a mini relationship seminar to boot, but that’s okay, because NoteBrooke.com is meant to be more of an anecdotal, lifestyle blog than one that’s dedicated solely to fashion.  Take a look at some of our most recent adventures – of course, Anthony hates having his picture taken (don’t all men to some degree?), so you’ll see a lot of, well…me, and what I’m wearing, but rest assured, these trips were both centered around spending quality time together and enjoying a new experience as a couple.  I highly recommend “The Five Love Languages,” because 1) I’m definitely not doing its well thought out, detail rich contents enough justice by explaining things in less than ten paragraphs on a blog post 2) This book was one of the most helpful ones that I’ve ever read in examining some of the challenges men and women face in effectively communicating.  It’s a quick, interesting read that may help you to understand more about both yourself and your partner.

…And, apparently, I’m now a book reviewer too.  That’s all I got for ya today

[Sweater] JCrew [Shorts] Digs, NYC [Heels] Tibi [Sunnies] Prada [Bag] Dolce & Gabbana

No one’s ever asked me to list the three essential items that I couldn’t possibly bare to live without if I were to, say, go through a Castaway like ordeal and become stranded at sea for a couple of years, only to be found forty eight months later, drifting through the Pacific by a fortuitously passing cargo ship.  Naturally, the rescue would occur shortly after my downward descent into the throes of a severe depression precipitated by the loss of my face-painted soccer ball and sole companion -– Wilson (andddd, now you also know that I have a little bit of a Tom Hanks thing, as well, but, there are no secrets harbored on the pages of NoteBrooke.com, so it’s whatever). ANYWAY, the likelihood of that happening is, of course, on par with the probability of someone caring enough to pose that question to me in the first place, being that it’s generally reserved for celebrities who are accustomed to being interviewed in the pages of Vogue/Elle/Allure/et.al.

And (brief aside), I’m continuously shocked when the corresponding retort is the same generic, if slightly non-sensical, “ummm…mascara, lip gloss, and my Cetaphil face wash.” I mean…really… and if so… why? I guess I can get on board with the desire to maintain a glowy complexion all year long, but who the hell are you going to be puckering your lips for anyway?  It’s not like you’ll be posting any selfies on instagram?

Regardless, here’s my very own list, in descending order, of the three essentials that I’d bring in my suitcase (Do I get to have a suitcase?!) if I, too, could exercise skills in advanced planning for an expected/unexpected hypothetical sojourn to an unknown location entirely off the grid system. Here goes nothing:

1) My puppy, Madison, because I have an unhealthy obsession with her that includes but is not limited to the recent acquisition of a pair of maltese slippers cannot live without her, and I think she’d enjoy a life on the beach given her propensity for all things involving dirt/water/exploration.

2) Contact lenses.  I’m almost positive that I’m legally blind, which is to say that I’ve once again made a self-diagnosis based solely on research performed via Web MD.  Listen, all I know is that the very keyboard in which I’m typing on right now would be a total blur if not for my lifesaving little plastic packs of one a day throw aways — so while this option isn’t a particularly fun or glamorous one, it’s most definitely a necessity.  Believe me, I’ve thought this through.

3) My summer wardrobe! Ummm, hellur. I’ve always preferred spring frocks to fall fashion, and I’d obviously have to do something to keep myself entertained if left alone on an island for years on end.  So, why not style outfits? Added bonus – the increased production of melanin on my skin, prompting everything to look just a little bit better with the ubiquitous presence of a perfectly natural suntan that I could feel entirely guilt free about attaining (Hey, I’m stranded beneath the beating rays…nothing I can do about it… remember?)

So, there you have it.  And, while I wasn’t actually cast away during my most recent tropical hiatus (I mean… I was at the Ritz Carlton in Puerto Rico), I did exercise an unusual amount of restraint in my normally over the top packing regiment.  This leant itself to easy, effortless color blocking and a much less stressful trip for all parties involved.  Let me know what you guys think!

[Blazer] Helmut Lang [Blouse] Theory [Leather Harems] Vince Shoes [Tibi] Watch [AP]

It’s around six degrees in New York today, and I’m sitting in my apartment — alone, with the exception, of course, of Madison, my soul sister/bestie/child/smush/twin/puppy, who’s running around in a counter clockwise spiral of absolute mania, squeaking her chew toy incessantly, marking up the wood floors just enough to make me question whether her her four pound fluff ball of a body can actually cause any substantial damage, or if the only evidence of this episode will appear as a smattering of “simple scratches.”

Fashion week is coming to a close, and I’m heading out of town for an uber exotic Valentine’s Day getaway to….wait for it…the Maldives — you know, where William & Kate honeymooned.  No, just kidding – I’m actually just going to Puerto Rico.  But, HEY, it’s warm, and it happens to possess one little monosyllable word, starting in ‘s’ and ending in ‘n’, so although I may not be infused with a tsunami of culture/self-exploration/foreign adventures (Anywhere that doesn’t require a passport is the equivalent of Florida to me, I’m sorry), I will get to post a lot of resort looks, thereby popping (pun) some color into the thus far black/white/navy pages of my blog (stay tuned)!

But before I jet off into the not so proverbial sunset, I wanted to post some of the photos I snapped at the Alice & Olivia presentation at Highline Stages in Chelsea this week. Bare in mind, while fashion is unquestionably one of my foremost passions in life, I’m not actually employed in the industry. Law school has posed an irreverent little dent into my initial plans to launch an all consuming fashion career (which is another story, and one probably best reserved for my shrink), so thus far, it’s remained an outlet solely for purposes of creativity, escapism, and well, some semblance of mental health.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I’m not one of those industry insiders who might blog something like, “OMG I haven’t slept in two weeks due to the necessity of my presence at six thousand shows/I’ve been sustaining life on backstage catering/I’m so in demand that I’ve been running around the city from dusk til dawn/ I’m headed to London next — can you possibly imagine how cray-cray my life is right now?” Don’t get me wrong, I’m not knocking those people because I think that that’s an entirely bad ass run on sentence to be able to mutter if ever there were one, but it’s just not who I am right now. I’m the girl who’s more apt to say something like, “I was somehow at a show/I had little to no idea what to expect/ I was anything but blasé about it, morphing into your embarrassing little sister, if your little sister were a teeny bopper who squeals at the sight of Vanessa Hudgens when she appears with the designer on the red carpet.”  Right, I’m that embarrassing novice, and I’m not afraid to say it, because I know that many of my readers are ladies just like me, ladies who love fashion but have day jobs that don’t always allow for visits to shows and/or intimate relationships with the industry.

From what I threw on in a last minute semi state of panic (Me? Panicked?! Never.), to how the room looked, to how the models were styled, here’s a look at my first experience at a fashion week presentation.  Madison has now scratched entire panels of my flooring into mini piles of dust, and Puerto Rico packing awaits – so for now, enjoy the pics, and I’ll see you guys poolside when I have a pina colada/mini umbrella/US Weekly in hand  ;)

Lastly, I apologize for the impossibly blurry images.  Living between two cities has proven challenging in terms of remembering crucial items (i.e. my camera during fashion week), so I snapped all of these with my Iphone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Skinnies [JBrand] Top [Topshop] Boots [Zara] Necklace [Alexa Leigh] Fur Coat [Saks] Bag [Celine]

Fur coats are funny little things in the sense that they can very quickly summon vastly different visions of either 1) Audrey Hepburn/My Fair Lady premiere/Park Avenue princess endless glamour OR…well, 2) something that’s been lopsidedly hanging in you Grandmother’s closet, without having seen the light of day, for twenty plus years.

I think the difference exists entirely within the fit, which is to say that it truly isn’t about cost, color, or even the type of fur per se; rather, the secret to success is contingent upon how a piece falls and serves to enhance the shape of the body.

During a recent fete in the fur salon at Saks, a saleswoman insisted that she had “just the coat” for me, forcing placing my arms into a ridiculously long, all consuming (with the exception of my head, it covered the length of my entire body) chocolate brown number comprised of “the finest Russian sable.” After buttoning it up to my neck (breathing room is so overrated), she stood back to admire her work, hand aptly cupped over dropped jaw, wide eyed, seemingly astonished at how “glamorous” I looked in this seventy thousand dollar abominable snowman suit  treasure.

Though I departed from the store empty handed that day, I eventually found and fell in love with the fur poncho pictured above. It’s not long or especially dazzling; it’s not made of Russian sable, and I didn’t have to refinance my condo to purchase it — but it accentuates my shape, and it’s come to hold a ubiquitous presence in my wardrobe. My ‘furry friend’ as I like to call it (That’s a lot less weird to take in if you understand that I name all of my key wardrobe essentials – you’ll eventually meet Big Puffy/Soft Plush/Johnny Depp and…well, nevermind) can be worn to dress up jeans and a sweater, or even to keep me stylishly warm when I’m wearing, say, a dress or an evening gown in the dead of winter in New York.

And though I love my Grandmother and her style, I like to think that this piece is less in line with the items that she’s kept untouched in her closet for a couple of decades, and just a little bit more reminiscent of the Audrey/My Fair Lady side of things

[Harem Pants]: Tibi [Top]: Tibi [Heels]: Manolo Blahnik [Clutch]: Scoop [Nails]: Mr. Butler by Essie

Shopping for jeans used to require the partition of a forty-eight hour window of opportunity dedicated solely to a hung jury like process of painstaking deliberation.

Grappling with a sky-high pile of demin that resembled more of an overcrowded trash heap than a wealth of designer digs, I’d start the journey of trying on fifty different shades of horrible – nothing deep/mercurial/mysterious/sexy about this, though; just death by a full body mirror and a thousand variations of stitching, styles, brands, and colors that ultimately begged the question, “Whhhhhy can’t I effortlessly slip into a single pair of skinny jeans?”

At five foot eight with a simple, boy like figure, often metaphorically referred to as an “ironing board” by friends and family (so flattering, thank you loved ones), it didn’t seem like it should be all that difficult – and yet, for the first eighteen years of my life, skinny jeans shopping actualized into nothing more than sulking out of a series of department stores with something that was tolerable enough, the lesser of a hundred pairs of evils that would hopefully be at least one step above matronly waistlines, muffin tops and bad butts.

So when the JBrand jegging found me my freshman year of college, you can imagine how elated I was by the promise of something that was consistently consistent in its ability to fit and flatter.  It was as if JBrand somehow heard the silent, rueful cries of desperation emanating from the inside of my stark mental institution dressing room walls and sent the ultimate remedy — a token of appreciation from the denim Gods that whispered, “We feel your pain.  Now, here’s a custom fit cut for hanging in there with us.”

I stripped my closet down to nothing and then re-stocked it with the skinny jegging in every color.  And, with the quick click of a mouse and the implementation of a credit card number, I had a brand new collection of cashmere lined leather glove esque fitting pants, saturating my wardrobe, giving it a boost of life and a more confident identity. Whether I was sporting my skinnies with a pointed toe Escada heel (My go-to night on the town shoes in college via kleptomania and my mother’s closet) or to class the following morning, my skinnies were never very far.

Like, ever (Yes, a very thinly veiled “We’re Never Getting Back Together” lyrical reference; I love you Taylor Swift)

It was only recently, as I’ve started keeping this blog and tapping more deeply into my passion for fashion, that I realized that the skinny, however fabulous it may be, could not exist as the sole component of my pants wardrobe.  Variety is, in fact, the spice of life, and while I would generally consider myself to be fairly amenable to change, I sometimes need a major shove in the right direction to serve as a catalyst — a point of launch, if you will.  Of late, I’ve been taking note of different silhouettes, studying how the addition of a strong harem, for instance, can change the whole mood of an outfit and take it from basic, neat, clean and safe to utterly show stopping.  As a woman (I still struggle with that word and often want to scream GIRL at this point, but I digress), in her mid twenties, I’ve also been undergoing a series of personal adaptations that I imagine many of us are experiencing in today’s less than predictable world.

Questions about my career, what I want out of life, where exactly I’m going, and which city I’d ultimately like to call home, are all cropping up, and I’m…evolving. While I love those skinnies, I no longer rely on them like a crutch, a safety net that will guarantee a good outfit, if a ‘good outfit’ were considered the doppelganger of the look that I sported just yesterday.  Now, I’m a little bit more confident about who I am; so it stands to reason that my fashion choices aren’t about safety; instead, they’re about self-expression and trying new things that expand my once iron-clad parameters.

Here, I present to you a glimpse into a recent experiment in proportions.  Loose fitting, pseudo harem pants with an oversized nautical silk stripe = me.  Well…me, today, right now, in this moment. And, hanging neatly in a growing section of my closet, is a collection of newly acquired, pants/maxi skirts/wide legged trousers that rival even the ‘”skinny jegging section’” in size.

[Skinnies] JBrand [Blouse] Theory [Blazer] Theory [Boots] Manolo Blahnik [Sunnies] Prada

I’ve noticed that the mere utterance of the word fashion can act as a rage inducing trigger for some, who seem to believe that the “f bomb” is synonymous with nothing more than a fusion of scarily skinny people, materialism and the propagation of a culture obsessed with the (unfortunately) non-existent fountain of youth.  When I first started NoteBrooke, for instance, there were those individuals who didn’t quite… get it, dismissing the entire effort as a gross method of self-promotion, a forum in which I was, for some unknown but inevitably sinister reason, posting pictures of myself bopping around the Upper East Side in designer clothes, hair side swept and blowing in unison with each subsequent click click of the camera.

While I wouldn’t agree that my fashion based blog serves as a method of self-promotion, I do think it can aptly be regarded as an experiment in self-discovery.  Two summers ago, I found myself in a Paris hotel room breathing into a brown paper bag while assuming the proverbial fetal position on the floor, worried about absolutely nothing and everything all at the same time.  Can you say panic attack?  Turns out everything bad thing that I’d ever experienced, feared and subsequently tried to suppress decided to re-emerge, in the way that it always does — rather inconveniently — smack dab in the middle of what should have been a lovely summer hiatus in Europe.

While my biggest concern ought to have been what bistro to dine at that day, or perhaps, facilitating transportation to Versailles, it was instead, let’s just say, a period of great personal confusion and anxiety. That trip included a lot of suffering, sleepless nights, and irrational worry; I would soon learn that it was only the preamble to what became a major period of awakening in my life.  I’ll spare you the subsequent transcriptions of discussions with my shrink (I mean, hey, I’m putting it ll out there anyway) or the details of the many desperate transatlantic phone calls with her at all hours of the day/night, but it suffices to say that I had a lot of self-discovery to do and even more major life decisions to make thereafter.

So, okay, maybe you haven’t had a complete mental breakdown on the floor of a hotel room in Paris, while your fiancé looked on as if you were the glass menagerie – ready to shatter into bits at any given moment, but each of us, at some point or another, really should engage in a little self exploration, if not just for the sake of realizing some measure of personal growth and evolution.  Amanda Brooks, who penned the style guide, “I <3 Your Style,” suggests that personal style is about discovering oneself, and that, “There’s a lot of room for experimentation along the way, but arriving at a strong sense of style that suits you and makes you feel great every day and everywhere depends on confidently knowing who you are and what’s important to you.”

Knowing who you are and what’s important to you AND consistently feeling great about it? That’s major. I do believe that true style is the physical embodiment of this very concept.  After initially reading this quote, I wanted to megaphone a resounding “Thank you” to Amanda for verbalizing what I’ve been feeling for years every single time I buttoned up my blouse and slipped into a pointed toe pump. The recognition of this notion prompted my fashion related ah-ha moment, which is to say that I realized it’s not all just a series of superficial expenditures. It’s a turtle and her shell, two entities that work harmoniously together to create a physical reverberation of an intimate story — a labyrinth of experiences, ideas, beliefs and ideals that ultimately comprise the identity of an individual.

That’s one of the reasons why I do take fashion so seriously – because I believe that it can serve as a reflection of one’s own unique story and personal evolution.  It’s the no two snowflakes are quite the same mentality. Pictured above, you’ll find a quintessentially pieced together “Brooke” outfit, meaning something that’s comprised of my go to, play it safe staples. The first adjectives that come to mind in describing the look are formal, minimalist, understated, hushed. In the past, I’ve mostly gravitated towards outfits that I would categorize as being “dependable.” And, that’s fine.  Everyone has a launch point, and a style identity, in the same way that everyone possesses a sense of unique individuality.  In more recent times, though, and yes, specifically since that crazy with a capital C summer in Paris, I’ve been strongly drawn towards the enigmatic, and with a strong compulsion to the be more fresh, open, creative, and daring, I’ve yearned to reflect my evolution in the way that I’m dressed.

Cue the introduction of the leopard scarf.  It may be a small step, one that some will inevitably find comical in the context of a post focused on life altering moments and a thirst for change, but sometimes, real change needs to start out slowly and work from the ground up.  I’ve learned that by setting out with my own set of reliable fundamentals, and then shaking them up a bit, making sure to get out of my comfort zone, I can create a style that’s true to who I am but that also incorporates new, and sometimes even, trendy, options that I would never have bothered to seek out formerly.

That’s what this outfit represents; that’s what it all means.  It’s a nod to some of my original style muses– Audrey, Olivia, and my mother, but ultimately, it’s a wide stride towards the unknown.  Contained in the finely woven fibers of a pair of jeggings, a silk blouse and blazer — and perhaps most notably, in an animal print accessory, you’ll find a story, based on years of experiences, interactions, mistakes, successes, lessons, travels, relationships – and that’s why fashion is not just a superficial hobby, but instead, it’s a challenge of sorts, an ode to self discovery and purpose.