This is Not an April Fools.

With the advent of April, I hope that I can beat the "blogger's block" that plagued me for the month of March. So let's start with a confession on this April Fool's Day: I, KR, lover of all things pop culture, am yet to listen to child star (and probably soon-to-be has-been) Rebecca Black's "Friday." This is not a prank: I have truly never witnessed the YouTube sensation that Lady GaGa considers a genius, but Miley a lazy, lazy girl. Perhaps I'm missing out? Either way, I just thought I'd put it out there. (TGIF, regardless!)

You see, I've been far busier listening to the musical stylings of an era during which Rebecca Black's parents probably weren't present. That's right: for the month of March, I was "dancing to the music" of Rod Stewart and acting like I was "on the edge of 17" a la Stevie Nicks. Last Saturday, aside my gay-in-command CM (happy birthday, boo!), I joined the throng of music lovers just a tad older than Mr. Fabulous and me for the "Heart & Soul" tour's Madison Square Garden performance. And it. Was. Amazing! We rocked out like we grew up with Rod and cheered as if we saw Stevie through her dark past. Many thanks to my hip cousin MR for the ticket. I wore black leather and lace like the edgy fashionista that I am. Rawrrr!

But enough about YouTube celebs and pink-suit wearing pop stars. If we're going to talk about music, let's discuss Katy Perry's E.T. music video, which dropped yesterday. In all honesty, I probably hopped off the blogging bandwagon for a bit because I was too busy listening to this megahit on repeat for the past month. Do you LOVE it?!?!

On tap for me this weekend: some BYOB sushi tonight (amen to Fridays in Lent!) and some 10k training tomorrow (I'm really doing it this time!). Enjoy it, everyone--and to close out this music-themed post, please refer to Elton John's sassy song for a summary of what's to come! I'm baaaack!

March.

March means many, many fabulous things are upon us, so I'm going to jump right in!

-As ML once put it, "It's almost Burberry quilted jacket weather!" Though it's technically a tad chilly for rocking them as of yet, both my trench and black quilted coat (my two best impulse buys of all time!) have already gotten a workout--and it's only March 3rd!

-Um... BRIGHT COLORS! Hello! I don't even care that I'm over doing it in a ruffly lime green chiffon top and pink pumps today. My black commuting flats and quilted coat help me "blend in" to neutral New York while braving the concrete jungle, while the bright hues keep me awake and sane throughout my ELLE-ish (ha, what a witty a pun!) 9-5.

-Easter egg nail enamel becomes acceptable! The pastel purple shade on my baby-sized nails is eons better than a subdued greige.

-Fat Tuesday! Though I treat every one of my Tuesdays as "fat" (well, and my Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays, too, for that matter), I enjoy any excuse to eat mozzarella sticks without judgment. But not that I ever really care, actually. I love mozz sticks!

-Lastly, and most importantly, March is the month home to the most important day of the year: MY BIRTHDAY! Enough said.

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!

Quote of the Week

After RJ broke his totally trendy shoe while instructing us how to Douglas at last Saturday night's Upper East Side pre-game (let's just say he was really getting into it and got seriously sad on Sunday after hearing he left the watering hole just seconds before the Cali Swag District's dance phenomenon blasted through the speakers of B Bar), he spoke this absolute gem of a statement: "Okay, so this might be one of the gayer things I've ever actually said, but you look very Anne Hathaway in Devil Wears Prada right now." He claimed it was my blazer-and-bangs combo...and he was probably right. It was a pretty good outfit.

Need I list another reason why fabulous girls need fabulous gays?

I'm Back.

Just because my January blog posts were as present as females over size 2 are in my current place of employment (read: I’m definitely the sole employee who has ever experienced the life-changing qualities of Nutella, non-Diet Coke and the general art of snacking), that sure doesn’t mean I have nothing to say. As per usual, I in fact have lots and lots to say about some important things going on in the world:

I disagree with most that Anne Hathaway was the best dressed at the Golden Globes (Catherine Zeta Jones absolutely rocked the house in her perfect gemstone green Monique Lhuillier gown); I support the United States getting disgraced when Snooki, The Situation and the rest of the tan team invade Italy to film Jersey Shore season 4, as it will make for insanely amazing reality TV with which I can overload my DVR (I’m a DVR newbie and—HOLY COW—how did I go 23 years without one?!); I’m incredibly amused by advertisers pulling their campaigns from airing during MTV’s “Skins” (safe for the Real Housewives of DC (zzzzzzz), the pilot was quite possibly the worst TV I've ever watched); and I have finally admitted to myself that my friends (besties who are perfect and amazing and seriously so fun!) and I literally have far too much in common with this list.

Any debate on the above? Let’s dialogue.

Hopefully February will be more “my month” in the blogosphere. Until then, I’m closing out January with board games and an improv comedy show tonight, some Dougie-ing Saturday and some sleeping Sunday. And let’s not forget Le Cirque on Monday! Oh food. Oh how I love thee. God bless us everyone, and God bless Restaurant Week.

Reading, 'riting & 'rithmetic in 2011

Thanks to 99.9% of New Yorkers resolving to “hit the gym more” in 2011, my evenings at Chicquinox have become a little less relaxing in a gym packed to the absolute brim with ladies and gents decked in designer spandex—yes, ladies and gents. Nonetheless, while my goals for the new year do not involve making it onto a treadmill or spin bike thrice weekly (I’m happy to say that I’m already doing that!), they aren’t nonexistent, either. Here’s what I’ve got:

Reading: When I started working in my town library at the ripe age of 14, I wrote my ticket to nerdville. For a total bibliophile, it was a pretty decent gig, and it funded my teenage social habits, such as going out for slices of pizza and seeing a PG-rated movies (Like I said, I was kind of a nerd.). Anyhow, while my love of books never waned—as a proud English major, I have quite the obsession with anything Charles Dickens or F. Scott Fitzgerald composed—my time dedicated to reading, and solely reading, certainly has. As such, I hope to dedicate a little bit of time each day to reading books for pleasure. And by books, I mean both brain cell-killing chick lit (Snooki’s most recent “novel,” anyone?) and a smattering of classics.

‘riting: Thanks to a team effort by the skinniest foodie I know and my roommate, I can now consider myself a freelance writer! I’m committing myself to write three 500-1000 word stories each week, and as a celebration for shedding my nerdiness and becoming a pretty happening gal about town (ha), plan to put the pennies made into the piggy bank whose sole purpose is to fund my stacked social calendar! You can check out my stories here (just please refrain from judging me on my first topic)!

‘rithmetic: Though I have a very solid business education, I still need to learn what the heck is going on the financial markets. Well, maybe not learn (I’m not dumb!) as much as I should gain a greater understanding...

Here’s hoping!

As always, have a happy Friday, and make sure to stay fabulous.

Top Five: Why Fabulous Girls Need Fabulous Gays

Inspired by the Girls Who Like Boys Who Like Boys website, but not totally sold on the reasons listed, here are my own top five reasons why every straight and fabulous girl needs a gay and fabulous guy. Or, in my case, quite a few gay and fabulous guys. Here goes:

1. They make insane gym buddies. Prior to becoming one of the Lululemon-clad gym bunnies at Chicquinox, I attended a zone known more for it's bargain than its bombshell clientele. However, what the purple and yellow equipment-filled gym lacked in brand name, it more than made up for in my workout buddy, RJ. During the summer of 2009, we would sweat our brains out, treadmilling and toning in tandem.

2. They know how to use a camera. Back in September, after bidding BT bon voyage on what I hope is just a temporary stint in Beantown, CM and I passed the time during a gorgeous day in the Meatpacking District by taking pictures in quite fierce poses in front of some interesting guerilla art. No one else would have really "gotten" the glam of the graffitied wall. But CM did!

3. They. Can. Dance! During my junior year of college, I visited ML at Notre Dame, and was privilege to have met her own army of fabulous gay guys. Her number one, NW, was truly divine, drinking his drink straw-style through a pitcher, in between showing me his best Usher-esque moves and getting lower than low.

4. They know how to host a smashing soirée. When RJ started dating RW, it was music to my BWLB-loving ears. The adorable Ginger from Long Island not only brings a perpetual smile to my dear friend's face, but he's also become as much a member of our circle of friends as RJ himself. And, to top things off, he is the best party host I have come across in a long time. I'm telling you: his mulled cider is the winter beverage equivalent of Manolo Blahnik's Urban Shoe Myth.

5. And finally, but not most importantly, because I hold all these reasons for having a posse of fabulous gay pals on call equally necessary and important, they can serve as insta-boyfriends in an absolute pinch! Also, in most cases, they will also dress better than every other gentleman at whatever "plus one" event you attend as a pair, hence making you the most A-plus bombshell in the room. Voila!

So, to all my fabulous gays out there, this one's for you. Thanks for keeping me company at the gym. Thanks for taking pictures of me on my good side. Thanks for the non-stop booty-shaking on the dance floor. Thanks for understanding that Natty Light does not a party beverage make. And, of course, thanks for being my date when I need one. XOXO.

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.