A Christmas Miracle-for real!

The 411 on my blizzardy Brooklyn move is a story for another day. On this snowy Monday, during which I actually made it from Brooklyn’s Clark St. to Manhattan’s 6^th Ave without so much as a drop of snow on my stockings (thank you kindly, Hunter Wellingtons), I’d like to tell a quick tale about a Christmas miracle that happened to me this past weekend.

But first, some background: last holiday season, in between balancing my penchant for pie eating with an equally large desire to lighten the load in my trunk (ha), I enjoyed a free month at Healthtrax, the fancy gym in my fancy Long Island hometown. In between treadmill intervals and locker room showers, I lost one of my most prized possessions: a gold nameplate that my Grandma gave me when I turned 16. I searched high and low, from the gym showers to under my bed, and in every nook and cranny of my 100+ pocketbook collection, but the necklace was nowhere to be found—I even thought it might miraculously turn up when I packed up my Stonehill dorm for the final time back in May, but yet again, no such luck.

Then maybe, I thought it might reappear while packing up the Palace last week, but amidst the holiday hecticness, I resigned that it was still just a fragment of my past, though an ever-present memory of my mind. I was devastated to have lost it—not for it’s gold or glitz or ability to look simply awesome with every outfit—but because it was a gift from Grandma.

And then, just yesterday, while sitting in my new Brooklyn apartment, Mamadukes at my side, unpacking an old Vera Bradly duffle bag that I randomly grabbed from my childhood closet so I could lug my photo album collection to my new home, out fell the necklace! My gold nameplate, looking fresh and shiny as ever, found its way out of the duffle alongside my also-once-missing (though far, far less missed) Blackberry charger.

It was as if Grandma was in the room with us, smiling and laughing and wishing me well on my new home, reminding me one last time of her two signature life rules: (1) that you can never go wrong in a black and white outfit, and (2) that every date should be accepted, because even the iffy-looking boys have cute friends!

And honestly? She couldn’t be more right. Thanks for helping me find my necklace, Grandma. =)

An Ode to the Boys Who Like Boys

I have two questions on this lovely, yet frigid, Wednesday morning: (1) What is the Sundance Channel? and (2) Why the #$%^ did they not choose ME as one of the stars of its newest—and sure to be smash—hit “Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys!?”

I’m serious! In my travels from middle school theatre camp to high school hallways to college clubs and to the streets of New York, I always tend to befriend the boys who like boys—and these boys who like boys have made some of the best friends I’ve had in my years as an a capella-loving, sushi-eating, ANTM-watching recessionista. Honestly, this show was made forme, but now I just feel like crying because I missed the boat on becoming the Sundance Channel’s next—or perhaps even first?—big and fabulous reality star with my big and fabulous entourage of glamorously gorgeous gays.

But, alas! Enter my Chief Boy Who Likes Boys (and oh does he ever!), CM (you can see us above, subwaying home after a night of breaking it down on the dance floor, hence my messy 'do, but the vintage Gucci bag from Le Closet de Mamadukes makes up for it, don't ya think?), to wipe away my proverbial tears (proverbial because I know CM would totes call me out on an un-fierce make-up application—he watches too much Tyra!) and promise me that we’ll audition for the next season. And then enter NW, another one of my favorite boys who likes boys (and ladies, this is a true shame—this BWLB is smokin'!), who actually proposed that we create our own show. If this doesn't have BRAVO written all over it, I don't know what does. Andy Cohen, have your people call mine and we an arrange a sit down over Cosmos.

So, mysterious Sundance Channel: stay tuned! Because your ratings are about to learn the meaning of “skyrocket” when KR, CM and NW break out onto the scene…or at least the dance floor of the newest and hottest club in Hell’s Kitchen!

So Long, Farewell...

This weekend was one of hellos and goodbyes. With several of my favorite pals back in town for the Christmas season, my Saturday night was a "guys night out" in honor of my dear friend, CA, who is moving back to his native Sri Lanka at the end of the month. I'll miss him terribly, but our celebratory good-bye bash with MM and SR was the perfect way to send him off in style. Naturally, I taught them all how to Dougie while dominating the dance floor at Phebes, decked in my signature leopard.

Sunday morning started a little earlier than I would have liked (read: peeling myself from the warm cocoon of my bed before noon was not high on my list), but was well worth the mimosa-filled brunch at AC's Murray Hill apartment. As our tradition goes, we took a "pitcha by the treeeee" before exchanging Secret Santa gifts. DA hit the jackpot, giving me Godiva chocolate and a pink bangle bracelet, which was wrapped gorgeously in gold paper, while I gave CO an Ork poster of her new city. And, to top things off, BT, who was in town for the weekend, made a guest appearance! Discussions ensued on every politically incorrect topic under the sun, and I don't think I stopped laughing once.

Campfire Chic

Alright. It’s been just a tad freezing for the past few weeks in New York. So freezing, in fact, that I must have lost few brain cells, making me silly enough to still wear leggings with flats and a chiffon top to work in the dead of winter—but at least my shoes were cute and my pants stretchy enough for pizza Friday! Anyhow, in attempt to fight the Alaskan-esque dip in temperature we’ve got going on, I’m in the market for a new coat. And as much as I never, ever, ever want to take off the leathery perfection that is my sample sale-bought Tory Burch leather motorcycle jacket (rawr...I'm so edgy!), I need something a little more practical for when the snow starts to fall, turning my new Brooklyn block into an incredibly photogenic site (right KG?!). But the thing is, those awesomely warm, three-quarter length puffers that look so snuggly and warm and wonderful also make their wearers look like marshmallows. I actually love marshmallows, both in the form of Fluff and as the compliment to Hersheys chocolate and graham crackers during the camping trips I’ve never actually gone on (come on, can you imagine ME camping?), but I digress! Do I really want to look like a marshmallow?!

Honestly? If it will keep me warm, I just might suck it up. I could call it “Campfire Chic.” Any suggestions? Please keep the puffery to a minimum--I want the real deal here! (Ha, that was too easy.)

Brooklyn, We Go Hard.

After two incredibly conspicuous hints over the past two days (first, that my news involves a brownstone, and second, that it comes with far less space than my current abode in the Queens Palace), I'm ready to reveal my big and fabulous announcement: I, KR, Queen of Queens, am bouncing boroughs to my dream neighborhood. While I'll always look back fondly at my times in Middle Village (for few locations house such happy memories of spending time with my amazing Grandma who called the Palace home before me!), it's time to graduate to a new home in Brooklyn Heights. Aside from the fact that I’ll no longer have to take the Q11 just to get to the subway, freezing my tush off at the bus stop each morning and night (albeit stylishly in my furry pink earmuffs!), I’m no longer living alone!! AD, my new roommate extraordinaire, and I bonded instantly over our mutual love of Foley + Corinna bags, sweet potatoes, GLEE and Strongbow... could I have gotten any luckier?!

Well, yes, actually. Because you see, my friends, family and phantom readers alike (hi, JW), this view is my backyard. Who's in for a housewarming?! Naturally, this will play on repeat.

Entrepreneurial KR Rocks the Shoe Rack

Another hint about the big news I'm going to share soon: it involves much less space than I've got right now... (Have you guessed yet?!)

So, in an attempt to make peace with that, I'm cleaning out shop. If you're a size 8 in shoes (and if that's your dress size, me and my hips send our evil envy), strut on over to my eBay shop and color your closet with some Cole Haan that I no longer need! I promise, I have impeccable taste.

A Little Something for the Toms

Getting complimented on my shoes amongst a never-ending sea of ladies in Louboutins just may be the most glamorous accomplishment I’ve had yet in my month-long time at ELLE—though the hallway hello I had from our iconic style director tops the list, as well. Now these shoes that received a compliment—or maybe it was just elevator small talk, but I’ll be optimistic for optimism’s sake—were not a pair of my most ferocious flats, stylish stilettos or bank-breaking booties. They were a pair of Toms. Toms!

I wore my cushy and—gasp!—flat (oh, the horror!) Toms last Friday, after weeks of clacking around the 42^nd floor of the Time & Life Building turned my ankles and arches into aching excuses for some R&R. Honestly, Toms are more like slippers than anything else, hence my hesitation to rock them in public (let alone at ELLE!), but I think the gold sparkles made them worthy enough for the fashion den. Or at least worthy enough in the eyes of this recessionista!

Naturally, in a perfect world, I’d die for my love of leopard to collide with the comfort I find in Toms, but as perfect as these are, I just can’t justify a $100 pair of slippers when my heart’s already been stolen by these…and these…okay, and these, too…

But, alas, I have embraced self-control in the shopping sphere (aren't you proud, Mamadukes?) due to the major news I'll share with y'all tomorrow. Hint: it involves a brownstone...

Things That Didn't Happen This Weekend

No, JT and I certainly did not binge on a total of 26 dumplings on Friday night in preparation for our Stonehill reunion out on the town. (Just like we never ingested full bags of hint-of-lime Tostitos in single sittings on several Sundays during our Stonehill daze (pun intended), while procrastinating a week's worth of work by watching episode after episode of Law & Order: SVU.)

No, I also didn't befriend a pink and green decked Father Christmas in Christopher Square during Saturday's SANTACON, nor did I prove my Vixen the Reindeer-ness (hence the leathaaa jacket, thank you Tory Burch sample sale) by striking a pose on the 1 train platform.

No, ML and I did not skip down 34th St., hand in hand, while singing Frosty the Snowman, hopping across the crosswalk like Buddy the Elf. ML also didn't use a Chanel lipstick to paint on her red Rudolph nose.

No, eight (ish) reindeer and one Australian version of St. Nick himself did not visit Rockefeller Center for some touristy fun to see the twinkling tree after an afternoon of SANTACON-ing, nor did they spend upwards of an hour posing for pictures with precious cherubs who wanted up close and personal shots with the jolly old elf himself... and his antler-wearing chaffeurs, of course.

And no, those eight (ish) reindeer did not watch their fair Vixen befriend the three ten-year-old boys who are all up for the lead in Broadway's Billy Elliot, nor did the voluptuous reindeer-ess show those Broadway bounds her box step, dance-off style, outside Radio City Music Hall, only to be--quite literally--out stepped by their aerial cartwheels and triple pirouettes.

Ha. If only I just told the truth... Can your weekend top that?!

Ho Ho Ho,

KR

Do You Zumba!?

Well, as of 6:15 yesterday, at the underground 50^th St. den of the fit and fabulous otherwise known as “chic-quinox” (thank you, AC!), I do! And I am absolutely hooked! For 45 sweaty minutes, I shook my “hips” and shimmied my “shoulders” to the tune of salsa, meringue and hip hop beats, all for the famed “leaner, longer bod” that Zumba! promises. Now, as a lassie from the Emerald Isle, I should probably stick to the jig and nothing but the jig. My grooving grace is less than fabulous, despite what I might think at 2:59 AM on Friday and Saturday nights when, while approaching last call at whatever Lower East Side dive I tend to find myself in by that point in the evening, I dance my nights away, truly convinced that I have more rhythmic clout than a Rockette. Or a Knicks City Dancer, like my Zumba! instructor, Cindya. (Seriously, I don’t mess around.)

But did I care? No way! I had a blast, I burned mad calories and I didn’t even think twice about the sad but true fact that my krumping looked like a spasm straight out of The Exorcist.

Pumpkin Pie’s got nothing on this Zumba!-ing machine!