SURevolution leaf bracelet $285, Vivre.com

This new year, take organic matter and man-make it your own.

This new year, shape the world into tools for your own pleasure and profit.

This new year, resolve to bend reality to your will, to build yourself into the person you want to be, and–

Only bother with “green” when it refers to cash.

Happy New Year, lovelies.

XXXO,
K

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“Want to get a pizza?”

“Sure,” I say, without looking up at The Boy. I put down my MacBook, and check my reflection: my bobbed hair’s carefully disheveled, my lingerie romper a crisp black and white. I grab my iPhone and wallet, and– “I just have to get my shoes downstairs.”

“Don’t bother.” The Boy walks into one of his closets, and pushes the button to call the elevator. On the way out he tosses pink, Made-in-China flip-flops at me. The sandals rest on his Persian rug; I stare at them.

“No way am I wearing one of your ex-hoe’s shoes.” I wrinkle my face. “Especially when they’re flip-flops.”

“Just put them on,” he says. “You won’t even get out of the car.”

I tie tight my belted camel coat, rubbing my cheek against the fox fur collar. I finally slip on the rubber sandals. Over the elevator’s rumbling as it rises to our floor, I hear The Boy chuckling in the closet. “Oh, don’t come in here yet. I haven’t worn this in forever.” I hear some shuffling. “Okay, you can look.”

The Boy walks into his bedroom’s low light, and his Greek bust of a body is covered completely by a brown robe dusting the floor. The dirt-dyed fabric is shapeless, except for a peaked hood that swallows his white face into a shadow.

“From Saks?” I ask.

“Turkey,” he says, grinning. “It’s actually incredibly warm. I wore it on the plane home, and the other passengers looked worried, like I’d been praying to Allah.”

“Beautiful, Binnie,” I say. I hold the door open, following him into the elevator, almost like a meek wife. “Let’s roll.”
KEEP READING »

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Lack of money is the root of all evil.

Low cash flow bleeds into envying thy neighbor — yeah, that fat housewife with the allowance.

Not printing paper leaves less space to jot down your dreams — like owning an Italian husband 10 years younger than you.

Not banging out Benjamins leads to desperate measures — like banging a Ben who measures up desperately.

Back to work.

“Come shower with me,” calls The Boy, my boy.

I walk into his bathroom, and see him naked in the shower stall, wiping its glass clear with old Wall Street Journals and a jug of vinegar. “Are you pickling your pickle?” I ask.

“You should hope not.” I stand there, watching him through the glass, as he looks over the snaky spaces in the carved Roman marble of the shower, eyes pausing on a New World black and chrome switch box. “I’ve never tried the sauna in here.” He presses its buttons, and we’re quiet, waiting. A couple minutes pass, and we hear the shower stall breath, transforming into the steamer of a giant espresso machine. “Hop in, Little Satan.”

I strip and slip in, sitting on the cold marble bench. Spirits of water begin to kiss me, clinging to my skin, and I watch the temperature climb on the black box. 65° F to 70° to 75°… The steam’s slowly exploding into our marble and glass world, and I steal a little breath, and cough. My lungs choke on the water in the air, but I breath deep, I make myself relax. The Boy sits next to me, and we lie against the marble walls on opposite ends, book-ending the space between us, our legs open to each other. Steam dances and beads on the glass, on the walls, on our skin, though I only see the drops through touch: the steam is fogging my vision. “Just breath deep,” says The Boy. “How calming is this?”

KEEP READING »

One of my fav Manhattan memories? Cuddling in a snow white vintage mink coat, hands toasting in an antique seal fur muff, legs wrapped in leather boots thigh-high, escaping the raw cold in an unnaturally warm restaurant.

That served yuppie vegan food.

I love being on top of the food chain. I order grilled shark at a cafe for the satisfaction of eating something that’d otherwise eat me if it weren’t for my mind, I clutch urbane snaky bags as a primal celebration of conquering Mama Nature, and I adore this Unearthed crocodile cuff as a smart “Fuck you” to a dino-old species that’d make a bracelet out of my albino skin–very exotic for Los Angeles–if it had the brain to do so.

Boss enough for your p.m. play, the ivory crocodile cuff is gloss enough for your business lunch.

The one you’re sure to kill.

» Unearthed crocodile cuff in ivory $125, Etsy.com

Though occasionally your K’s vision gets clouded –

Six protein bars instead of three meals? I traded the Upper East Side for LA? Rocked wedge boots instead of petite platform pumps?

– Give me a three minutes and two soy lattes, and my smoky eyes begin to clear. Brush off the bars, they’ll keep my little body hot for my boy, who makes La La Land bearable, who’s amused by my pretend-practical shoes.

And which, all rough, earthy suede, vibe right against the lucid Lucite cuff by Patricia von Musulin.

» Patricia von Musulin Lucite cuff $650, Vivre