Today I feel scandalous. Free. Like a total wild child. And it’s all because I’m not wearing any tights. I love when spring finally rolls around and I can ditch the hosiery. Walking into the brisk, spring air without anything on my legs is complete exhilaration!

Now don’t get me wrong, tights have their place in the world. They keep my legs warm and help me look stylish all winter long. But by March every year, I’m yearning for a more free-spirited approach to fashion. Plus, tights have their downfalls. Let me take this opportunity to highlight everything I hate about tights.

1) Waistband Bunch-Up: I hate it when the waistband inconveniently moves to a place you don’t want it to and sits there—bothering you—until you go to the ladies room and hike those suckers up again.

2) Getting The Runs: Your outfit looks great until you bump up against the wrong piece of furniture and get a giant run in your tights. Amazing how one wrong move can ruin an entire outfit in minutes. Nothing’s skankier than tights with a giant run in them.

3) Toe Squish: I hate when I put cute shoes on with tights and extra fabric around the toes bunches up in or around my shoes. It looks awful and it’s uncomfortable.

But today I don’t have to worry about any of that because I’m free from the oppression of hosiery. And maybe, just maybe, if I keep my fingers crossed, I won’t have to think about putting another pair of tights on until next October! (But who am I kidding? I bet I’ll have another pair of tights on by next week when the temperatures dip back down.)

Several months ago I bought a sequins mini skirt. You know, because it was such a practical purchase. Here's the thing: I love sequins. And as long as something doused in sequins is hanging in my closet, I want to wear it every day. Yesterday I went on a mission to create the perfect outfit with my sequins mini-skirt (so I could wear it even more). I reached out to some fashionistas on Twitter, got a few ideas, and then hit my closet (and the mall). I came up with a couple ways to rock my mini, but this look took the cake.

Let me break this outfit down for you. The sequins mini skirt is paired with a plain white t-shirt and a relaxed-fitting boyfriend blazer. Then, I put a studded patent leather belt around the waist and threw on some black patent heels. The perfect accessory for the whole look was my new watch (and of course a rock star smile and a few good friends).

Would you wear it?

The other day someone made a comment to me. They said something like, "You would never shop at Target. You're way more of a Neimans girl." False. The truth is, I've got clothes and baubles from all over the place. I might be wearing Chanel paired with something from Target, but most people don't know the difference. When an awesome reader of mine sent me this quote, I knew she understood my style.

"Even on a budget, you can afford to get that look of drama. The idea is to convey glamour. It is not what you wear but how you wear it. When you mix treasures with things that aren't, then no one can tell the difference. They think it's all real!"

~Rachel Zoe, who clearly understands that the best style is well-mixed and nicely balanced style. I have a lot of really expensive clothing...and a lot of clothing I found on clearance racks for around 10 bucks. But when I mix those things together, everyone just seems to think it all looks really, really expensive. Cha-ching.

There are lots of ways to ruin a perfectly good outfit. You could neglect accessories. Wear pants two sizes too small. Show too much skin. Or, you could puke all over yourself in the middle of the day.

I rarely ruin an outfit. But last week I ruined one in the worst way possible. On this particular day I was feeling a little nervous for several reasons. I had lots of stuff to do and not enough time to do it. I needed to solidify my social calendar for the evening. I got a little carsick on the ride back from lunch. And I started drinking a Diet Coke with rum in it around 2:00 p.m (hey, it’s always five o’clock somewhere, right?). Around 2:30 I started to feel a little strange. So I stopped drinking my adult beverage. Then, fifteen minutes later I got an intense hot flash that only a woman going through menopause could sympathize with. My stomach started to churn and I slowly got up from my desk and made a graceful, completely incognito exit to the ladies’ room.

I went into the bathroom and there was no one there. Thank goodness. I went into the “big stall” and stood against the wall for a minute. Get a hold of yourself. You’re not going to puke. I breathed slowly and methodically. After five minutes I felt much better, I opened my eyes and turned to walk out of the stall when all of a sudden a lump in my stomach made a sudden jerk and barf flew out of my mouth. I doubled-over and raised my hand to try to block the damage, but it was too late. I had successfully puked all over my skinny jeans.

The smell was revolting and I quickly rolled 90 feet of toilet paper off the roll to help me clean up the mess on the floor and try to disguise the damage. I didn’t want anyone to see the mess I had created. Then, I snuck out into the main part of the bathroom to grab paper towels. I snuck back into the stall, locked the door and attempted to clean my pants. But there were at least 20 giant gobs of puke running down the front of my pants.

I stood in the restroom trying to keep myself from crying. And eventually I threw away all of the evidence, put a smile on my face and marched back into the office and stood in my bosses doorway.

“Hi.” I said, with a half-smile on my face.

“What happened to you?” She said, eyeing up the wet, slightly chunky splotches all over my pants.

“I just puked all over myself in the bathroom and I need to go home.”

“Ohhhhmygosh. Go get your stuff and leave right now. Just go,” she said, with calmness that only a mother of two boys could possess.

So I went home. And that’s how I ruined a perfectly good outfit last week. It’s pretty well known that I have a weak stomach and puke whenever I get overly nervous, worked up or experience motion sickness. But normally, the evidence isn’t spewed all over my pants.

When people see my bedroom their jaw drops a little bit lot. Then they normally say, “Wow, for someone who is so perfectly put together in every other area of their life, your room is an organizational nightmare.” I can’t deny it. Organization has never been my strong suit. In fact, I hate organizing. For years I’ve attempted to keep my closet color-coded to no avail. A week after the organization has been performed, it’s back to its jumbled mess of a wardrobe.

My room isn’t dirty—there’s no crusty old food lying around or anything like that. There’s simply shoes, clothing, handbags, belts, scarves and jewelry covering ever square inch. It could be worse. I could hoard an antique taxidermy collection in my room, or leave last months’ dinners lying around, but I don’t. In all honestly, my room is comparable to a dressing room at a high-end department store that no one has cleared out in months. It’s a culmination of designer clothing and cutesy, girly stuff with no rhyme, reason or order. And no, it’s not unusual to find a big, fake diamond lying on the floor.

A few weeks ago, a gal pal of mine came over to our house for drinks and then we went out to celebrate a friend’s birthday. After an evening of many cocktails, she decided to crash at our place. Not wanting to sleep all alone on the sofa, she decided to bunk-up with yours truly. While I explained my room was very, very messy, it didn’t keep her from hopping into bed with me. (I can’t blame her, my bed is ridiculously comfortable: Ralph Lauren Rodeo Drive sheets, a feather bed, two down comforters, mountains of pillows.) And she seemed relatively unfazed by my mess and free of judgment. Just today I told her that I actually cleaned my room. She responded by saying, “Why? It was kind of fun waking up to a pile of neon bras.”

“Why? It was kind of fun waking up to a pile of neon bras.”

So there you have it, I have a ridiculously messy room. It’s actually pretty clean at the given moment, but give it a another couple weeks and there will be scarves, jewels and maybe even some neon bras scattered from wall to wall.

It seems I can always justify a purchase. Last night I showed my roommate a pair of shoes I recently acquired. She looked at me and chuckled, then made a comment about how many furry pairs of animal print shoes I own. I, naturally, had the perfect response.

"I have many pairs of leopard print shoes. But I don't have any snow-leopard print shoes."

~Me, who can always seem to come up with the right excuse for the perfect pair of kicks! And just because I know you're dying to see the shoes in question, I've included a picture below (taken straight from my feet, today).

My Dad and I are kind of in a Facebook fight. I never really thought my life would come to this. And I definitely never thought I’d hear myself utter those words. My Dad and I are in a Facebook fight. But I have reason to be agitated.

Here’s some background. A lot of girls really hate being seen in swimsuits. It’s always a tricky situation. I don’t mind being seen in a swimsuit, but certain things have to align:

1) I have to be ready for it. No surprise attacks or people looking at me that I didn’t expect. I’m comfortable hanging out with minimal clothing, as long as I know who’s around and what they’ll be doing.

2) The swimsuit has to be awesome. I prefer to be photographed or seen in my St. John bikini because it looks the best on me—not only is it slimming, the colors were made for my hair and complexion.

3) Pictures must be posed. Cellulite happens when your fat gets smooshed against a raft or inner-tube. And when you’re in your swimsuit, there’s no fabric there to cover-up or conceal any imperfections. If you have to snap a picture at pool day, you better hope I’m standing up (and at an angle), sucking in and smiling big. Or I’ll throw your camera in the pool.

I think you can see where this is going. On Saturday morning I was busy getting stuff done. My phone started flashing, indicating that I’d received an email, and I ignored it for a few minutes. Then, finally, I picked up my phone to check my alerts. They were from Facebook. My dad tagged me in three pictures.

It should be noted that earlier this year my father tagged a picture of me sleeping on Christmas Eve. I’m wrapped up in a satiny blanket with the dog, wearing leopard print pajamas by Ralph Lauren. All of my friends found this picture hilarious. You see, I have an “image” to maintain and this picture didn’t quite fit the image. (Since this picture now seems like kid stuff compared to what I'm about to divulge, I've included the photo below.)

But on Saturday, the pictures were much worse. As I clicked-through the alert to see what photos my father tagged me in, a picture started to load that made my stomach drop. There, for all of Facebook to see, was a picture of me on the family boat wearing a white and red nautical bikini. I’m not really sucking in. I’m not really looking all that great. And I’m definitely not wearing any make-up.

Thanks Dad.

My dad is friends with all of my friends. There’s just too many common connections. And by 2:00 p.m. I’m fairly certain that everyone in my extended network (business contacts, secret lovers and ex-boyfriends included) saw my sunburned body, circa 2006, in a nautical bikini at the top of their newsfeed. My Dad argued that the picture was adorable. Then he argued that the picture was taken in public and if I didn’t want to be seen in public like that I should reconsider my swimsuit choices. But when you’re on floating hunk of fiberglass off the coast of Florida, things are different.

I have been on Facebook since 2004. And during some of that time I was in college. And amazingly enough I managed to keep most incriminating pictures at bay. But the minute my dad joins Facebook, the stuff that ruins political careers starts seeping through the woodwork.

I love when a male tells me he doesn't like my outfit. It's funny. Because at the root of it all, I don't care whether he likes my outfit or not. I rarely ever dress for guys. And this quote is the perfect summary of my feelings.

“Girls do not dress for boys. They dress for themselves, and of course, each other. If girls dressed for boys, they’d just walk around naked at all times.”

~Betsey Johnson, whose sassy designs are made for the feminine, sassy chick in all of us! So when you get dressed, dress to impress no one but yourself. The confidence you radiate from wearing something you love will be more likely to attract a man than the flowered dress or skinny jeans that are "so in" this season!

Being pretty can be time-consuming and expensive. And let’s face it, in a world where everyone needs more time and more money, us fashionistas sometimes go to desperate measures to get more pretty for what’s in our pockets. Just yesterday I was reminded of a story that taught me a lesson about do-it-yourself beauty procedures.

Two years ago I was fresh out of college and busy getting acclimated to being a working girl. Between long hours at the office and a social calendar that would give the Hilton sisters a run for their money, I was busy juggling work and play (to be honest, not much as changed since then). With all I had to do, I barely had the time (nor the resources) to take care of myself. One night I remember getting in my car, looking at my hair and thinking, “Nice roots.” My bright, summer blonde hair was being seriously interrupted by a dark cloud of dirty blonde forming around my roots and slowly creepy its way down my part.

(At this point in the post, you're probably thinking, "Why is she posting a picture of herself dressed up like Lady Gaga?" Well. Let me answer that. As you can see from the photo, Lady Gaga and I have very similar hair colors. This proves that when my roots get bad, it can be a tricky situation.)

Without the prospect of a salon trip I decided to take matters into my own hands. I headed to Walgreens (never a good decision) and bought a highlighting and bleaching kit for blondes. Easy enough. Right? I headed home, slipped into sweats, opened the box and followed the instructions—smearing the bleach in all the right places. Then I settled into a chair with a book to wait the 20 minutes.

Except I didn’t wait 20 minutes. Or 30 minutes. Or 90 minutes. I fell asleep and woke up four hours later in the middle of the night…with bleach still processing on my hair. I immediately ran to the shower (still groggy from my accidental slumber) and began rinsing my hair. The bleach was caked in. I shampooed. I conditioned. And I started to cry as my hair fell out in clumps.

When I finally jumped out of the shower, I began touching my hair and looking at it in the mirror. My hair strands had been turned to a rubbery substance that stretched and pulled as I ran my hands through it. In desperation, I tried to brush it, but my nearly white hair twisted around the bristles like spider webs. It was bad.

At 2:00 a.m. my salon definitely wasn’t open. So I did the only logical thing there was to do. I emailed my boss to tell her I wouldn’t be in the following morning. I explained my mistake and explained the need for an early morning trip to my hair stylist. And while I never went totally bald, I did rock a very short, very platinum hair style that summer. (Luckily, my stylist was able to fix almost everything and take care of any dead hair by giving me a short, sassy style.)

And I learned that a trip to the salon (with my pride still intact) would have been a lot less painful and less expensive than a trip to the salon without my pride. And, I probably wouldn’t have had to purchase a complete set of Bumble and Bumble therapeutic hair treatments (they work wonders, by the way).

So if you find yourself a bit more poor than pretty, don’t rely on those do-it-yourself treatments. Save up for the professional procedure you need or find a less high maintenance way to glow—take it from someone who almost spent a summer without hair.

I literally cannot move today. I feel like I’m 80 years old. My back is completely out of whack. I can’t turn my head. It’s painful to change lanes when driving. I can’t make any sudden movements. Today, as I was filling up my coffee cup at the office, a coworker came up behind me and said, “Boo!” And guess what? They have no idea the impact that actually had on my tense, sore body.

I don’t actually know why my back is so completely jacked up today. But I started asking myself questions about all the things I could have done to put myself in this condition.

Did you perform any manual labor (like heavy lifting or moving)? Not a chance.

Did you overdo it on the vodka (again) and try to do a cartwheel in the living room? Don’t think so. I’d likely have broken bones, too. And no one has tried to blackmail me with pictures yet.

Did you slip on ice wearing unreasonable shoes? Five-inch platform sling backs are not unreasonable. And there's no ice in sight, I’ve had my sunroof open the past two days.

Did you wear one of those "statement necklaces" again that weighs 12 pounds? Eh, could have. But I’m used to the pain that comes with being fashionable.

I was completely lost as to why I was approaching paralysis when suddenly I remembered what I did last night from the hours of 8:00-10:00pm. I watched Lady Gaga’s Telephone video three times (followed by every other video she’s released) and attempted to copy the dance moves. That. Probably. Did. It.

They say that practice makes perfect. So until I master the monsteresque moves of Lady Gaga’s music videos without having to rub myself down in Icy Hot, I’ll just pay tribute to her with flashy clothing, make-up and maybe a wig or two.

Two years ago, I dropped my big, swanky watch into a toilet full of pee (my own pee, thankfully) at a sushi restaurant. Since then, I’ve been on a quest for a sparkly new timepiece for my wrist. With so many watch options and so many styles available, choosing a bauble has been a difficult task for me. And alas, I’ve kept putting it off.

Let’s be honest, most of the watches I really like aren’t really within my budget. (They’ll totally be within my budget in 10 years, but for now they’re more aspirational goals than anything.) The Chanel J12? Love it. The Rolex Yachtmaster? Dig it. Anything big and chunky with lots of diamonds or flashy metallics? Sign me up.

Over the weekend I found myself at the mall with my best friend. While sucking down an iced latte and doing some shopping in Nordstrom, something caught my eye in the jewelry department. It was the case of Toy Watches. They were big, blinged-out, colorful, dazzling. And there was one that stood out from the rest. Well, actually there were two very similar watches that stood out from the rest: white, blinged-out Plasteramic watches with big faces. One had about 90% more bling than the other. I tried them on. They both looked great on my wrist. And since I’d been having a challenging couple of weeks, I decided that I needed to add one of these lovely watches to my life. (It should be noted that jewelry is so much more agreeable than people.)

Surprisingly, I actually had trouble deciding between the watch with reasonable bling and the one with out-of-control bling. But in the end I went with my roots and picked the watch that looked like it should belong to a rapper’s girlfriend. As I was wearing it out of the store, a couple of ladies stopped me to comment me on my watch. That’s when I knew I'd made a good decision.

This blinged-out Plasteramic by Toy Watch is now adorning my wrist! Since Sandra Bullock made this watch famous in The Blind Side it has been a hot commodity and sold out online and in stores throughout the country. Guess it was my lucky day! Let’s see if I can keep it out of the toilet...

Yeah. I bought a watch to make myself feel good. And you know what? It worked.

I absolutely fell in love with today's Pretty Proclamation. Partly because it's authored by one of my favorite people and partly because it's absolutely true.

"Some women choose to follow men, and some women choose to follow their dreams. If you're wondering which way to go, remember that your career will never wake up and tell you that it doesn't love you anymore."

~Lady Gaga, who has fantastic views on fashion as well as men, relationships and living the life you want to live. I can't really follow-up a great quote like that with much of an explanation, expect, "Touche, Gaga. Touche."

Today, as I was browsing my Twitter feed, I saw this quote that caught my eye. I completely agree. In fact, I could not agree more with this. It's really brilliant.

"Fashion is ART. If you don't occasionally shock a fellow human on your walk to work, you're missing one of the joys of life."

~E. Jean, the witty, tell-it-like-is advice columnist for Elle Magazine, who clearly understands a thing or two about what it really feels like to get dressed! Tomorrow, when you get dressed, put something on that makes someone pause (in a good way, of course). And if they pause in a bad way, well, that's a fashion fall taken-- pick yourself up, dust off those Manolos and try again!

I’m always yakking about this elusive bucket of diamonds that I’m looking for. And while it sounds very appealing, I feel like I should clarify why I want a bucket of diamonds for all you cynics out there. I have my reasons, and I feel as if they’re pretty darn good ones.

1) It’s the ultimate status symbol. Anyone can buy a luxury car or a mansion, but a bucket of diamonds? That doesn’t seem so easy to come by, now does it? I’ll know I’ve made it when I have a bucket of diamonds sitting on my dresser.

2) I’ll know it’s love. Everyone buys their significant other a ring. Think of how many rings are sold every day in the world. And then think of how many of those rings end up at the local pawn shop after a fiery divorce. Rings are sub-par. I’ll know it’s serious when loverboy shows up with a bucket of shiny rocks.

3) I’d dazzle the world. I won’t be selfish with my bucket. Think of the things I could accomplish with all those diamonds just sitting around at my disposal. There are so many situations where a fat rock could come in handy. My good friend goes through a break-up? Here, have a diamond. It’ll make you feel better. A relative has surgery? Nothing says, “get well soon” like a sparkling hunk of carbon. Graduation gift? Who needs money for college when they could have a diamond?

As a joke, the folks at my office got me a bucket of fake diamonds to sit on my desk at work. It’s more of a reminder than anything. Last week, a coworker brought their 4-year-old daughter into the office and she became enamored with my bucket of diamonds. And just like I’ve always promised I’d do, I shared one with her. And then I apologized to her mother profusely for helping promote a life of unrealistic expectations and materialism. But hey, start ‘em young.

Oh, and PS: I would totally buy this car. There’s definitely a buckets worth of rocks covering this bad boy. And apparently those really are diamonds.

And PPS: Now that you've finished reading this, you should head over to Harry Winston (the jeweler behind that adorable drop earring pictured above) to scout out your own diamond baubles.

Patterns are a playful way to play up nearly any outfit. Why wear solids when you can turn yourself into a canvas for artistic expression? Don’t get me wrong, solids are great—and absolutely essential to maintaining balance in your outfits—but there are several patterns I depend on year after year to add a splash of texture, color and fun to many of my favorite basics. Here are my three favorite patterns!

1) Plaid: Ever since I discovered the amazing world of Burberry I’ve been mad for plaid (the right kind, of course). But take that Burberry nova check pattern, for example. It’s timeless. It’s basically neutral. It’s a symbol of classic style. Plaid, when done right, can add a whole new dimension to your look. Perhaps that’s why Burberry has been lining its classic trenches in plaid for decades.

This Burberry trench coat is a modern take on the classic plaid!

2) Polka Dots: Nothing says, “Hi, I’m a lady” like a polka dot frock. From a feminine dress to a silk scarf adorned with polka dots, it’s a playful, girly way to soften up a look.

This Michael Kors dress, covered in dots, manages to be feminine without forgetting the fun!

3) Zebra Print: The cougar in me naturally gravitates to sassy animal prints. And while some animal prints get a reputation for being trashy and unappealing, zebra (when done correctly) is something that always makes me smile. A pair of zebra print heels paired with the right outfit is surprising and unexpected. While a zebra print pencil skirt adds a safari-inspired elegance to a look. Michael Kors is known for making zebra a classy, all-American look. And when done right, a little zebra in an outfit can get you a lot of chic points.

Never experience a lack of sass with these fantastic Michael Kors pumps!

Those are my three favorites. You might be surprised that stripes didn’t make the list…but I’ve seen stripes done wrong too many times to be in love with them. And as for Paisley? I love myself a Lilly Pullitzer paisley for the beach, but simply see too many unflattering paisley patterns done wrong. Argyle? I’m a big prep at heart and have a lot of love for Argyle, but sometimes find argyle unflattering (especially on girls).

What are your favorite patterns and how do you wear them?

It’s a good thing I can shop this month, because retail therapy was definitely in order over the weekend. It’s funny how a pile of designer clothes can make me smile on even the most depressing of days. (There’s no doubt a bucket of diamonds would have had a much more desirable and lasting effect, just saying.) Anyway, to give you a sneak peek into my sick and twisted world, here’s what I bought this weekend:

:: Tory Burch Blouse
:: Diane Von Furstenberg Blouse
:: BCBG Dress
:: Max Studio Dress
:: Joe’s Jeans

So while I may be eating ramen and drinking Karkov (instead of Ketel) for the next month, I’ve got some fashionable duds to dress myself up in. And in my head, that’s a sacrifice well worth the price. Shop on!

Any good retail therapy for you over the weekend? Share your purchases in the comments section!

My great aunt Truby passed away on Wednesday night. She was very old and had been sick for quite some time. And while this was a very sad happening, my great aunt Truby was truly someone to be celebrated for her pleasant demeanor and sassy sense of style (with a name like Truby, you've gotta' be sassy).

You see, my great aunt Truby was someone I spent a great deal of time with until I was around six years old. She was a complete firecracker—always sporting sassy red lipstick, driving a cute little car and wearing completely accessorized outfits. She was the epitome of a sassy lady. She was always bubbly, always entertaining and always (always) put together.

In fact, aunt Truby gave me my very first pair of heels. She could be credited as the one who started it all. She wore a very small size shoe (I believe a size five), which means that around fifth grade she started giving me her hand-me-down heels to play around in. It was around that time when I realized flat shoes were so not my thing.

She liked shopping and took me on several trips “to town” with her when I was a child. On one of those trips she accidentally locked me in the backseat of her car and frantically ran up and down the street telling people she’d locked a child in the car. One cool, calm and collected man simply looked at her and asked, “Did you ask the child to open the door?” Within seconds, I had flipped the switch and saved the day.

On another occasion, we went on a picnic and she ended up running over a stump that marked a parking spot in a park (probably because she was checking out her make-up in the mirror). That stump stayed knocked over for years after that. She wasn’t the best driver…and I guess that rubbed off on me, too.

I got to see my great aunt Truby last summer. She was very ill and barely recognized me. But she did one thing I’ll never forget. Lying in her hospital bed, barely able to move or speak, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a tube of lipstick and proceeded to apply it. What can I say? She taught me everything I know.

So this weekend, I’ll be lifting a nice, cold glass of Tang to my great aunt Truby (who always had Tang). After all, I think she’s one of the people who taught me what it was like to have your own individual style and to carry yourself with grace, elegance and class no matter what the world throws your way. But most importantly, aunt Truby taught me never to leave home without lipstick.

I finally reclaimed my title as a shopper last night. After work yesterday I decided to venture to a place I hadn’t been in a while: the mall. On the way, I was giddy with excitement. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t breathe. I broke out into a cold sweat and started shaking all over. Just the prospect of going to Macy’s was enough to make me channel a 16-year old on prom night.

After browsing the contemporary apparel and talking myself out of the most gorgeous Trina Turk color block dress I’ve ever seen, I ended up with a modern, hip and trendy BCBG number that (if I must say so myself) makes me look like a supermodel and a Herve Leger-inspired bandage dress (because it made me feel like Bethenny Frankel…just not as “naturally skinny”). And then I topped it all off with a pair of leopard-print heels I found on the clearance rack. Because let’s be honest, if you find a pair of leopard print heels that look like the other 15 pairs you’ve worn out in the past 3 years, and they just so happen to be 75% off, then you just have to buy them. (Leopard print heels actually go with just about anything. And if you don’t believe me, read this.)

So, world, I’m back in the game! My shopping abstinence was a good exercise to go through. But at the end of the day, it’s just not me. I’m good at shopping. And I like it. And it gives me stuff to blog about (and you stuff to read about). Shopping inspires me and keeps me on my toes—it helps me be me.

Will I ever take a month off shopping again? Perhaps. If I’m broke. But let’s not assume the worst.

Hi. I’m Emily, and I’m a shopaholic. And I’m totally okay with that.