Keeping My Digits Flexible

As a professional of the mobile industry, I'm supposed to retreat from the ramifications of using RIM technology. For those of you who are technologically unsavvy, RIM manufactures our fair-weather friend, otherwise known as the Blackberry. Just like that mean girl at your lunch table in middle school (though for a total dweeb such as myself, there were quite a few mean girls--I think one of them actually works at the mall now, oh such is that fabulous thing called karma!), the Blackberry is supernice sometimes, but downright awful just as often.

Case in point: BBM is God's gift to stalking your friends (how else can you call them out for not responding to your messages when you're alerted that they've already read them?), but taking your Berry's battery out to restart the damn device 700 times a day is soooo not the new black.

Android and iPhone users speak volumes about the merits of each device (omigod did you get the new Twitter app?! it's totez fab!), and since following the Engadget, Gizmodo and MobileCrunch is basically a part of my job, I could tell you a million reasons why we should all bid buh-bye to BBM and saddle up with the technology of the future. But, alas, no matter what the tech bloggers tell me, and no matter how many times I'm going to have to smack my pink-encased device against my desk in resuscitation attempts this afternoon, I still can't bid with my beloved keyboard.

...the keyboard upon which I write just about every blog post while commuting to work in the morning. How's that for a Tuesday morning Prose of Krose fun fact?! I'm a hop, skip and finger brace from having perpetual carpel tunnel!

Such a Twitterlebrity!

Proof of my Twitta fame (ha) amongst the Real Housewives of NYC. Ch-ching for KR. Seriously, it takes, like, nothing to make me insanely happy. (Side note: @cirbanchez is an old college pal of mine who could totes be a housewife twenty years from now, so I consider that Tweet a win, as well!]

Nuts for Nutella. And Chevre!

It's not too often that I feel a very literal need to take a half-day from work to try out a new recipe (lie #1), but this find, courtesy of my co-worker, MS, has me doing the Friday Foot Tap far more anxiously than I normally tap. I'm not sure if I'm yet to mention my love of Nutella (lie #2), but in my book, when it comes to culinary perfection, the chocolately, hazelnut spread sent straight from the Heavens is the name of the game. This recipe combines the only other semi-solid food that can, to me, hold some semblance of a torch to my addiction: goat cheese. I am totally making this buttery, cheesy and chocolatey concoction tonight (lie #3--but tomorrow, perhaps)!

Hot and Dangerous.

Let's set the scene: Thursday. 6PM. Long line. Line so long you contemplate skipping the super hyped roller coaster.

Wait. Wrong scene. Let's rewind: Line so long you contemplate skipping the fashion show. But wait. Enter trusty ELLE ID. Cut line. Enter throng of stiletto-wearing, leather-sporting fashionistas. Casually stroll through sponsor booths. Notice that no noshies are available (just Trident and Monster--figures.). Get escorted to seat in sixth row (It's not the last row now, but it's not the first, either.). Spot Simon van Kempen, Alex McCord, Mario Something and Ramona Singer of the Real Housewives of NYC in the Front Row. Make mental note to capitalize "Front Row" in requisite first fashion show blog post. Tweet the Bravolebrities. Anxiously watch Blackberry during pre-show performance by no-name guitar player. Receive Tweet from Simon asking your opinion on Ryan Star's performance. Realize singer wasn't actually a no name wannabe, but in fact the dude opening for Bon Jovi on their Spring 2011 tour. Tweet back that he was FAB.

Notice that models start to come out. Feign a tiny tad of sympathy for the Snooki-pouf sporting models who have definitely never experienced Nutella, veal, or mashed potatoes, among some of God's other gifts to gluttony. Make mental note to call Ke$ha: this line is SO her (But how could a line called White Trash Beautiful not be?!). Spy Ramona of both Bravo and the Front Row snapping furiously with her digicam. Make mental wish that [the other] KR and JB were there to make jokes with. Watch the crowd more than the actual strutting.

Gasp to self, perhaps even audibly, "OMGZ is that Richie Sambora?!" Notice that show is over as the 80s guitarist, designer of the WTB show you just witnessed, struts out behind his entourage of tall Snookis (points for greatest oxymoron ever?). Realize that Richie is actually pretty hot. Wonder why Denise Richards left him for that gem of a gent, Charlie Sheen. Beeline from seat to try and come within a few inches of the RHONYC and their husbands. Fail.

Get on subway (ugh) with Snooki Lookalike #13. Contemplate saying, "Nice job!" but decide she's probably too hungry, and therefore cranky, to deal with a superficial compliment, just like you are after going eight hours without a scoop of Nutella. Return to the squalor of Brooklyn. Notice you've been Tweeted back now by both Ramona and Alex McCord! Tap yourself on back for a successful cyber hobnob with the Bravolebrities. Microwave some ultra delish and ultra fatty Trader Joe's Lasagna. Say your prayers, making sure to thank God that you're not a starving model, and hit the pillow by 10 PM.

Success? I think so!

It's okay that I can't really stand in my shoes.

Well Merry Christmas and Happy Chanukkah to the clotheshorses of New York City. Fashion Week, the biannual event for which runway models starve themselves, publicists exhaust themselves and magazine publishers prepare themselves to tell all of us what we should be wearing six months from now, has been upon us, which means the hallowed halls of ELLE were a bit empty the past week. With every editor off gallivanting the tents of Lincoln Center (enter KR's jealousy), we commonfolk are the ones left holding down the fort of our fair glossy.

But not today! I, KR, have scored my first job perk with an exclusive invite to Fashion Week (enter your jealousy, perhaps?)! Accompanying one of our vendors, I'll be privilege to the gowns and glitz of Style 360, a conglomerate of shows with which ELLE is affiliated.

So, in preparation for my first fashion show (safe for the birthday fashion show I had when I turned 6, in which I paraded down a makeshift runway in my basement, while decked in a neon striped top and chunky-heeled mary janes), I did what I learned from years of watching Bravo, MTV, VH1 and any other cable network that preaches trends and praises the insanely (insanely!) hard and utterly (utterly!) backbreaking work that goes into pulling off fashion shows without a hitch: I went shopping.

But, alas! My pint-sized, rent-paying, Trader Joes-eating budget is no where near down with wearing the designer's look head-to-toe when attending "a show." Instead, I went shopping from my closet, made a teensy purchase from Forever 21, and am currently rocking a wild look that took nothing from my February "discretionary spending" but ten measly dollars.

So, for those of you wondering about this wild look, it involves mustard colored tights, a leather jacket, and shoes that I can't technically stand in comfortably. But it's sure worth it! RAWR.

A real life...

Google Analytics is tres addicting, despite the fact that this here blog's daily page views are less than a century old. Oh well. You see, it's cool to know that there's a rando in Turkey (HEY!) who frequents my prosetic (witty play on "poetic," right?) ramblings quite often, that I have hits from just about every United State, and that I'm the most optimized Google result for the search phrase "real life Elle Woods."

Yes, you read that right. My loyal handful of readers, I am the numbaaaa oneeee result in Google when one begins a cyber hunt for the human embodiment of Reese Witherspoon's Delta Nu prez--which is actually somewhat often! I should add, however, that I'm as brunette as they come, so do you wanna know what this means?

This means I just totally outsmarted Google. Which means I am totez going to take over the world some day. Which means I'm thisclose to becoming the female Mark Zuckerberg. Which means that this time next year, it'll be ME, brown hair and all, on the cover of TIME's "Most Influential People" issue.

I plan to wear this skirt and put my hand on my hip for the photo shoot.

to the windows, to the wall.

Call me crazy, but I actually enjoy Valentine's Day, despite being one of the lone (but not lonely!) New Yorkers who won't be sipping from the same milkshake, dining on a prix fixe Lover's Menu, or enjoying a carriage ride through Central Park with a hot date post-work tonight. No, I'm happy because Valentine's Day marks the one time each year that I can don an ensemble that screams "pink overload" without attracting "what ARE you wearing?" stares from the rest of New York's charcoal-clad population. Because if there's one True Love for me out there, it's definitely pink. So, on this Valentine's Day, a day dedicated to that mysterious thing known as L to the OVE, here is something I absolutely L to the OVED this weekend:

In honor of ML's 24th birthday on Saturday, we took a break from the hip-hop blasting speakers we usually frequent on the LES and trekked to Murray Hill for a blast from the past. While NYC's frattiest row does not make my Love List, the music played at Joshua Tree does. From the Material Girl's anthem about only dating men who can raise her interest (maybe this is why I'm going to the gym tonight...) to Bonnie Tyler's tale of total eclipses, and from Jefferson Starship's song of not letting anything stop you to the iconic Journey ballad of a small town girl living in a lonely world, throwback jams never fail to set the soundtrack to a superb evening. And, oh what a superb evening it was.

However, nothing against Cher, but turning back time in the musical sense can't replace the soft spot in my heart for Sweet Beatz like Lil John's "Get Low", Luda's "How Low," and Flo Ridas plain old "Low."

Hobnobbing with Harvard

In keeping with my senior year mission to attend just about every Stonehill event, both University-recognized (i.e. casino nights and gymnasium dances--and yes, they were really in the gymnasium) and Underground-chic (i.e. Senior Week pool parties and Civil War battles), I attended the on-campus performance of Boston's Improv Asylum last April (ish). This turned me on to the spontaneous hilarity of improvisation comedy, which made my past Friday night one of the better ones I've had in New York in a while.

After dominating quite the competitive game of Cranium at RA's FiDi studio wit ML, RJ, KM, LF and a bottle or two (ha) of California's gift to non-rich winos (otherwise known as Two Buck Chuck), we cabbed our way to the People's Improv Theatre to see the Harvard Sailing Team. Known best for their a-mazing "Boys Will Be Girls" and "Girls Will Be Boys" sketches, the troupe had us in stitches the entire night. And by entire, I mean we spent the hours after the show mingling with the cast, drinking wine by the glass and thinking of how many Trader Joe's bottles we could have bought for the cost of a mere sip.

For those of you who are interested (and by who are, I mean should be), they perform every Friday at 9:30. Harvard Sailing Team, I'll be back!