I love my Twitter friends. I know, half of you are shaking your heads thinking, "Twitter is for nerds." Or maybe you're laughing because I referred to a select group of people as my "Twitter friends." But let's be honest, in the world of fashion blogging, I've made some solid connections that can be largely attributed to Twitter. Today's post is from one of my Twitter friends, Adelle. We're two kindred style mavens who found each other by means of microblogging. Adelle's blog, The Fashionista Lab, is a trove of great outfits, fashion advice and rock star style (and she's always got great things to tweet about, too). But today, Adelle dishes on one of her personal theories about splurging.

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Long before I had a fashion blog I had a critical inner fashionista, and she manifested herself in my now-longstanding fabric-to-price ratio. From the time that my mother began dropping my sister and I off at the mall when we were in middle school, I simply decided that some items were not big enough to pay big money for.

My two basic tenets:

Synthetic fabric – such as polyester or acrylic – should not be expensive. Conversely, it’s ok to pay more for great textiles, such as cashmere, jersey (wool, silk or cotton), or linen. (I’m a textile snob.)

Small things – such as sunglasses or bathing suits – should not cost hundreds of dollars. If it can fit in the palm of my hand and it’s NOT jewelry or a piece of expensive technology, there should not be more than 2 digits in the price.

But the older I get, the more I develop my personal style, and the more money I have to spend, I do come across situations that challenge my ratio. Just today I encountered two beautiful tops I dearly wanted but that gave me serious pause:

The top on the left is just downright Gorgeous. Beautiful. Classy. Satin is a “great textile” and it’s the kind of blouse you can dress up or down and always look fabulous. And did I mention that blouse was originally $395? It’s expensive, but feels like it would be a great investment.

The top on the left is fun and original. How about that print?! It’s the kind of t-shirt you need in your closet because you can throw it on with jeans, make zero effort, and still look cool. We all need t-shirts like that! It was originally $495, so $123.75 is quite a discount. But still, $123.75 for a t-shirt??? But again, this is the t-shirt you want to have in your closet when you just can’t be bothered to think about clothes, but still want to turn heads.

Tough call. I’ve thought about it for hours and still can’t decide what I would do (the black top is sold out – probably for the best), but whatever the outcome, it will certainly be a defining moment for my fabric-to-price ratio.

Remember to go check out Adelle's blog here for more sassy fashion advice and to find out more about her theories on spending!

Today's guest blog post is from a lovely young lady who apparently just can't stop writing for me. During my senior year of college, I was the Editor-In-Chief for a little niche publication on the University of Missouri's campus. The paper highlighted Greek life and all the happenings of sorority and fraternity days. Claire, today's guest blogger, was on my staff. It should be noted that her stories involved virtually little to no editing. And they were always in on time. Now chasing a career in magazine journalism, Claire finds herself living life in New York City-- an experience that has helped her hone her writing skills and her ability to judge. In today's post, Claire points out that sometimes a pair of supposedly stylish jorts can be much more of a joke.

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It's hot and humid here in New York and there's no better time for airy dresses, bare arms and light, breathable fabrics. This weather also signals that touchy time of year when women must decide just what to put on their legs. Some choose skirts -- mini, flowing, patterned or plain -- while others opt for the all too slippery slope of shorts.

Sure, shorts are the practical option. Who wants to worry about flashing your lady parts on the subway? But when they don't fit perfectly (which is all too often the case) they're dangerously unflattering. The most offensive culprit? Denim shorts.

These jean mini-pants range from knee-length to non-existent, and come in an array of washes and rippage. Rippage? See photo. Yes, someone out there is paid to rip holes in your jeans just so you can pull off the Olsen twins' trademarked look: sloppy chic.

I digress.

New Yorkers have embraced the jean short spectrum, but what are most disturbing are the shorts' hideous half-sister: the high-waisted jean shorts. These are the thorns of the fashion world and should go the way of their cousin, acid washed denim. To anyone considering a high-waisted purchase, please reconsider.

In fact, the lines created by these pants (think: a deep V outlining your pelvic region in front and nearly the same image in back) are so distracting that I often find myself openly gawking. More plainly, there is absolutely NO body that can make this fashion tragedy work. And I've done the leg work (Ha! Punny!). Living across from Union Square means I'm privy to a catwalk of all sorts of hipsters, model wannabes, and the fashionably adventurous-- which is fine. But this also means that I see about 20 offending pairs of jorts a day traipsing about the streets, forcing everyone's eyes to the fact that their inseam is measured in millimeters.

So, when choosing a pair of shorts, try for something with an inseam of at least three inches and in a dark wash. And leave the high-waisted version in the closet, or better yet, the trash can.

Want to read more about Claire's life? Check out her blog here.

When I decided to feature guest bloggers, I got a lot of inquiries from old friends and new friends. This next post is from a new friend and fellow blogger named Sarah, who dishes up sassy stories on a blog she calls, "That's What She Said." I should also mention that she has a blog paying homage to Steve Perry. It's hilarious. Although I've never met Sarah in real life, her musings and hilarious tales make me think we'd be instant friends. In this guest post for Pretty and Poor, Sarah describes a disastrous date (something I can relate to)! Enjoy the awkwardness!

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It’s been a fantasy of mine for some time now to have a hot, sexy, romantic summer fling. Whenever summer rolls around, my thoughts conjure up all sorts of scenarios in which I go to the beach, looking for nothing more than a little sun and a dip in the waves, and wind up meeting a guy who looks like a younger version of Mike Rowe, complete with the nice arms and pecks. He’s also Southern, which has nothing to do with anything except for the fact that I like the accent and down-home values that most Southern boys seem to have. Oh, and he’s also a fireman, because, well, I love me some firemen.

Anyway, after that fateful meeting at the beach, my Southern Mike Rowe fireman and I spend the rest of the summer making out, wining and dining, dancing, and making out some more until the end of the season, where we part amicably, him going back to wherever he’s from (I never get around to fleshing out his back story) while I’m left with fond memories and perhaps a photo to put in my locket which will be found in a long-forgotten memory box by my grandchildren along with my diary from that summer.

Last summer, however, life, like it usually tends to do, kicked me in the metaphorical nuts and gave me a sick, twisted perversion of my fantasy. I was at Starbucks, enjoying a Vivanno smoothie and reading, when I was approached by a guy who looked like Paul Shaffer. He asked me about the book I was reading, which led to a conversation, which ended with me giving him my number. Now I know what you’re thinking: I just finished describing to you my dream guy, who is a Southern Mike Rowe look-alike and a fireman to boot. Why, then, would I waste my time on a guy who looks like Paul Shaffer?

It’s because I’m too frigging nice, as you’ll see later. The conversation was normal and pleasant enough, and I figured if a guy was willing to put himself out there, chat me up and ask for my number, the least I could do was give him a chance and see if it went anywhere. Sure, he looked like Paul Shaffer. And he looked to be in his mid-thirties, which was a bit older than I would have liked (I’m 26), but I ignored those things and went with my “don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it” mentality.

A few days later, Paul called to set a date. He suggested we meet at Starbucks, and from there go to a Thai restaurant downtown. Now the Starbucks where we met is about five miles (give or take) away from the Thai restaurant he was talking about, which meant we would have to meet up and then drive downtown. This being the first date, coupled with the fact that I didn’t know him from Adam meant that I sure as hell would not be riding in the same car as him, and if that’s what he had in mind, there would be an awkward conversation in our near future (I mean, let’s face it, there really is no nice way to tell a guy you won’t ride with him because he might be an ax murder or a rapist). So I suggested we just meet at the restaurant, to which he replied, “I’d rather meet at Starbucks. It’s a good place for me.”

I wasn’t sure how to interpret his odd response, so I just chalked it up to the fact that a) he really liked Starbucks, and b) meeting someone new and going on a first date with him or her is a nerve-wracking experience, and this can cause people to say weird things out of sheer nervousness. What it turned out to be was the tip of an iceberg of disaster.

On the day of our date, I met Paul at his beloved Starbucks, and was relieved when he changed the location of dinner to a Thai restaurant within walking distance. The conversation started out great--I learned that he had a career in publishing and he played the drums in his spare time. It got weird when he attempted to pay me a compliment by saying, “It’s so nice to be with someone who can carry on a conversation. The last date I went on, the girl went to college for 8 years, and I just wanted to ask her, ‘What did you go to school for?’ because she couldn’t carry on a conversation. I was in Special Ed and I could carry on a conversation better than she could.”

Okay, I know what you’re thinking, and in my defense, Paul did not originally come off as lacking any mental capacities. He even mentioned something about having ADHD or something along those lines, but I didn’t pay close attention to that part because my brain was too busy screaming, “OMG, did he really just say that?” Since I didn’t know how to respond to that bit of information, I just continued to smile politely and eat my dinner.

After dinner we walked over to a bar known for its relaxed atmosphere and live music. At this point in the date, I wasn’t feeling any chemistry at all, but I felt I should still give Paul the old college try and stick it out awhile longer (see what I mean about being too nice?). We grabbed a spot outside on the deck, and while the band was setting up, we got to talking about what types of music we liked. I told him I really liked classic rock and 80s music, and he asked if I’d ever heard of a band called The Cult. I told him I hadn’t, and the following exchange went a little something like this:

Him: Oh, come on! You had to have heard of them!
Me: Nope, I’ve never heard of them.
Him: Oh, come on! You’ve never heard of Fire Woman?
Me: Nope
Him (in what I think--I think--was supposed to be a high-pitched classic rock singing voice but sounded like anything but): FIYAH WOMAAAAN!
Me (not sure how to react): Nope, never heard of it.
Him: FIYAH WOMAAAAN!
Me: Um…nope, not ringing any bells.
Him: FIYAH WOMAAAAAN!

At random intervals for the rest of the night, Paul would lean into me (even after the band took the stage) and go, “FIYAH WOMAAAAN!” I don’t know why he was so adamant at trying to “jog my memory,” since apparently he’d convinced himself I had heard it before and just forgot; all I know was when midnight rolled around, I was ready to go home. It had been five hours. The chemistry wasn’t there. I knew it. He probably would have known it too had he not been so preoccupied with FIYAH WOMAAAAN! I told him I was heading out, and he got up to walk me to my car.

On the walk back, I was praying he wouldn’t ask to go out again, because that would mean I would awkwardly have to tell him no. But a few minutes after we’d started walking, he said he’d had a great time and that he would love to see me again. I politely explained to him that while I thought he was nice, I just wasn’t feeling any chemistry. And just like that, he turned and started on the most negative, nonsensical diatribe I’d ever heard:

“Maybe I should just stop dating because apparently I don’t got it. I think girls just want fake guys. I see people who are married and I want to ask them, ‘What are you married for?’ because everybody is so fake. Maybe I should just stop.”

The most awkward part about the whole thing was that while he was rambling, he kept looking at me, expecting me to verify everything he was saying. Thankfully, we arrived at our cars shortly thereafter, and I wasted no time in getting the hell out of there.

Needless to say, there was no summer romance in the cards for me last summer. Not by a long shot. But this summer? Who knows. The season is still young, and I’ve got a girls’ beach weekend coming up. There’s still time to meet my Southern Mike Rowe fireman look-alike.

When I was thinking of guest bloggers, one of the first people that came to mind was my friend Tyler. I met Tyler several years ago when he started dating my friend Kasey. The two have since gotten married, built an adorable house and started a life together. I get to see this fun-loving couple every time I’m back in Missouri for weddings, parties and social events. And trust me, the phrase “fun-loving” doesn’t do them justice. They truly are a blast to be around. Recently, Tyler started his own blog. In typical Tyler fashion, his trove of hilarious commentary is called Sorry For Partyin’. I asked Tyler to write a little diddy for Pretty and Poor and he came up with some very manly perspectives on fashion. I think you’ll find them enlightening, entertaining and very, very different from my own!

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Let me start by saying that I'm not a fashionista. I'm the same guy that until recently found out jean shorts and socks with sandals is socially unacceptable. If it's not camo or doesn't have an elastic waistband then guys won't wear it.

The main reason we men get married is because we don't want to have to worry about style or fashion anymore. We are tired of it…we don't enjoy trying to squeeze into a shirt that looks like it was bought at Baby Gap at the poor attempt to try and impress a woman. So we get married. We are grown men who need to be treated like young children. Women lay out our clothes to make sure we’re not wearing a black shirt with brown shoes. This bothers them at first (laying out our clothes), however, they are actually fist-pumping on the inside because this means that they get to go shopping for their man while at the same time meandering thru Forever 21, Banana Republic or Nordstrom.

That leads me to my next point...shopping. For women, it's a lifestyle, a pastime and a downright obsession. Whether it's shoes, clothes, body lotions or for a new boyfriend or spouse, women can never get enough shopping. The only time you will ever hear a man utter the word "shopping" is, "I have to go shopping to pick up some chips and booze for the game tonight."

The only time you will ever hear a man utter the word "shopping" is, "I have to go shopping to pick up some chips and booze for the game tonight."

It's not embedded in our DNA like women. And you can always spot the married guy in the mall because he has that "I want to kill myself look" on his face and resembles a Sherpa holding 19 bags from various stores. I guess you can look at it as us men have our sports and women have their shopping. The only difference, sports won't bankrupt us.

Writing this has caused my blood pressure to rise...so...I'm going to go shopping for some booze.

Sorry 4 Partyin.

Want more of Tyler's antics? Check out his blog, here.