Once upon a time there was a girl and while her story line did not include a certain evil step mother or equally evil sisters, it did include rags. Intentional rags though, cut outs and holey t-shirts were all the rage. Figure it a statement and less an obligatory method of dress. One day she almost met a man but before she could introduce herself, he dropped dead. Well, did not really drop dead but pretended that he did so she would go away. Her face was weird, highly accessorized accessories even weirder. As a result, she was all:

“What happened to you!” Evidently, he did not think his plan out all that well because after a while she learned he was still breathing. Eventually, he opened his eyes and proceeded to stand. She was thrilled that her ripped jeans had ostensibly resurrected him and once he could look past the particularly over-sized tee and recognized how darling she was as a mammal contributing to society in a very meaningful way, he asked out for burritos at Chipotle. She couldn’t go so they planned to meet that evening for instead a drink.

This garnered a la-di-da-di-da-I’m-so-happy song from her and her hair and then she realized she would need to get dressed and so get dressed she did with the help of a magical pumpkin. This wasn’t just any magical pumpkin though, this pumpkin had to power to transform itself into a sack shaped dress of any designer, make holes holier and high waists higher. A repelling pumpkin, if you will. Ultimately though, she didn’t change at all: baggy jeans and a large tee would do, she thought. Plexiglas shoes, too. After all, they would ultimately be the only string that tied this terribly configured story to Cinderella.

She waited at a service entrance, smile on face. Waited and waited and waited and waited and waited and then did some more waiting until she realized that she was being stood up. Stood up, I tell ya. He’s a no show. To take her mind off the notion that she had just become Cinder-no-fella, she played with her accessories and cultivated a new-age arm party that would, with a small sized hard shell purse, or clutch, or minaudiere, whatever, equipped with arm strap, wrap around her arm to pioneer the neo-arm party.

And so a thumbs up she did procure. From herself. Eventually, she left the service entrance more whole than when she had first arrived despite the current status: singular. On her walk home all she could think was: thank heavens I didn’t lose one o’my shoes, for she didn’t have the time to let a fake dead man wander around with her single Phillip Lim Orsay sandal, try it on many a foot to only weeks later have it returned to its rightful owner. Fairy tales are for babies anyway, she thought.

This week in a new installment called Shoesday: green cap toe, navy body, subtle glitter, dark wood. While working on my Russell co-Branded bookie wookie, I got to thinking about the relationship we have with our feet and the shit that goes on them. Maybe you remember the corresponding tweet attached to this sentiment. I have a few theories and speculations about why we’re willing to drop such large loads–brands will only make their footwear as expensive as the consumer can handle and loads of these guys run up some $3,000 price tags–on the little leather, often uncomfortable critters ultimately meant for no use more imperative than to drag across floors. Across floors.

Many a time, they’re even in fact overlooked in the grand scheme of presence. But my theories are just, you know, theories and they include the usual roundabout confidence, suspension of disbelief, strive to role play as a means of escapism, you know how it goes. Sex and The City penetrated the notion of a woman’s relationship with shoes quite heavily during the course of its six season run. In one episode, Carrie Bradshaw went so far as to fake nuptials with herself so as to regain a pair of lost silver Manolo Blahniks. In another, she had a pair stolen off her feet, literally. I’ll argue she deserved that one for not knowing where Houston Street was but that’s another beast to tackle at a later time. More recently, an entire movie–God Save our Heels–debuted during fashion week to outline the female attraction to expensive footwear. I saw it, I liked it–quite a lot–but somehow, I still find the question unresolved: what is it with us women and our shoes?

Would love to hear what you think.

I fell upon a photo of my arm from a Tommy Ton/Club Monaco hosted event last week and it got me thinking about handbags. The evolution of purse in recent years suggests ‘So Long Carry All’ been a long time coming. First it was a transition from the Olsen sized hobo to Olsen-sized clutch. Then it was a reintroduction of the pouchette of sorts–last summer’s favorite in particular:Alexander Wang’s Marion mini. Shortly thereafter Proenza Schouler’s smaller PS11 rendered more lust worthy than the previous PS1 and Celine’s trio, a triple zip threat will in time–here’s hoping–remove a certain large tote from the grand scheme of purse. While we see fashion reverting back to this place of sartorial modesty–silhouettes are far more reminiscent of the 50s than they are this decade–it only makes sense that the minaudiere would see shining time again too.

From top, left: Alexander McQueen, Diane von Furstenberg, BCBG Max Azria, Bruno, Givenchy,Lena Erziak, Judith Lieber. Credit given where credit is due: Alexander McQueen never saw nor accepted a death to the minaudiere–this particular version features a nice disconnect: utility suede on hard shell. Judith Lieber (bottom right,) cultivated an entire business on Swarovski adorned ornaments of sorts. And mixed among the aforementioned, you’ll find a few more options for when you’re ready to retire the massive sack. I am particularly keen on that little blue to pink ombre guy at right and the lucite apple, mid-bottom. Images via Stylespotting, Jak & Jil.

We thought for just one moment you may have been taking a back seat this year in favor of more layering for the sake of layering not just for the sake of warmth but you did us wrong, Motha Nature. I told you that bi-polar season may mandate winter’s comeback at the drop of a snow flake. And while I spent the weekend radiating skin and what have you in Mexico it was somewhat debilitating to return home and get smacked by a cold front. I’m just kidding though, it actually felt quite nice: I’m vibing rouge-tomate chic right now and a little cold is good for that. So here’s a little look at the happenings of my balcony on this fine Tuesday morning, where the limbs freeze like botox. I feared this outfit may have rendered irrelevant when last week summer swooped in but alas, wrong. Sweaters, turtlenecks, inconspicuous hair and the obligatory high five seem to be an appropriate outfitting method of choice again.

Turtlenecks, not just for turtles. Thumbs up, not just for Terry Richardson. Silver shoes, not just for moon men. Tassels, not just for nipples. Slits, not just for hookers–or a crafts project, these come slit and finally, standing up right twenty six stories high: not just for birds.

Fupas, not just for mom jeans. La di da di da, look at me, I can’t see, la di da di da. I love movement and photos that capture it. My name is Man Repeller, bla bla turban. It’s a little bit pajama, a little bit convention, a little bit ethnic and a whole lot weird.