No, not the song. Lil’ Wayne went out with white capris and bikinis at the end of the summer. And I think the candy’s just tacky. I’m talking about the new hottest bag on the market, the latest release from designer Evelina Zdunczyk’s Vegan Queen line – the lollipop.




The strap comes off so you can use it as a clutch, although I love nighttime purses I can wear crisscross across my body so I don’t have to worry about ever putting my bag down (risking it subsequently getting lost / diapering into a vortex of heaped up coats). The coolest part, aside from the variation of ways to wear it (double up the strap and you can use it as a shoulder bag too) is the lollipop’s very secret hidden pocket which can be used to store, well, whatever your vice is. It’s also a great place to tuck away your keys or an extra roll of cash – not to mention an aspirin or two, or any um, personal items. This feature is what makes the lolli the ultimate going out purse. Apparently, men have taken an acute interest in the sexy bag too, admiring it to the extent that Evelina’s thinking about making them for guys too!

I’ve written about Evelina before, mainly because I so admire her effort to fuse ecological values and high fashion. She calls it ‘eco-luxury.’ I think when most of us hear the word ‘vegan’ we start thinking about oatmeal, grunge, knitted caps and dreadlocks. That’s all well and good, but Evelina’s decided the principles behind vegan philosophy shouldn’t exist is such a limited sphere. With her slogan ‘The Queen Goes Green,’ Evelina has proven that fashion conscious women interested in luxury can embrace veganism too.

Vegan Queen’s handbags are eco-friendly, recyclable, non-toxic, organic, sustainable, cruelty-free and made in the USA. A goal of Evelina’s has been to introduce a Queen Goes Green tote bag at a lower price point. She’s accomplished this and the canvas tote has now become a social statement for a sustainable future. It’s carried by celebrities from Madonna to SNL actress Kristin Wiig.

I just got one along with a Vegan Queen t-shirt, which is made out of the kind of cotton you want to make babies with. As the gift-giving season approaches, join the mission for a sustainable future by tossing flashy labels like Gucci and Marc Jacobs out the window and start helping friends showcase their values through their handbags.

I recently started a “job” (paid internship) in unfamiliar territory (an office, midtown). I’ve been a bit out of my element, but at least I’m not alone. Or so I thought.

Another intern started the same day I did. Just minutes after my own entrance, she strutted into the office in a pair of five-inch heels and an extremely flattering houndstooth-check dress--a vision of fashionable work attire. After our meet and greet, we were both stationed side-by-side at two computers.

“I am so hungry already,” she confided.

I laughed. This girl appears to enjoy food. This could be the start of something good.

“I saw this little Japanese place two blocks up,” she whispered. “I’m totally going to get a sushi today. I love sushi.”

“Yeah, I don’t really eat sushi,” I told her. Her eyes widened. “I’m allergic to seafood. Raw fish makes me blow up like a balloon.”

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

She’s joking, right?

“Well,” I responded slowly, unsure of what to say. “It’s not like I know what I’m missing out on. So I don’t spend much time pining over the lack of fish in my life.”

“I just don’t know what I would do.”

“Somehow I get by.” This was getting more tiresome by the second.

“But don’t you feel, like, robbed?”

“Yes. At gunpoint.” Dead-pan delivery instantly killed the conversation.
At this point, I christened my fellow intern “Sushi Girl,” an appropriate name as she has continued to mention her favorite Japanese delicacy on a daily basis. Meanwhile, I feel like Sarah Palin attempting to describe her foreign policy experience to Katie Couric: "Uhhh...I mean, I live right next to a sushi place. And, you know, I watch people eating it all the time."

I have this need to justify myself--to prove my worth. Along with her clothes and her sympathy towards my dietary restrictions, Sushi Girl’s comments continue to make me feel like a bumpkin.

Sushi girl also already seems to know everyone. People walk by and say “hi” specifically to her. What does this make me? The other intern. Like that movie The Other Sister, except in this case nobody can tell that I’m socially handicapped. As I find myself so obviously “behind her” I can’t help but view this as a competition. Deep down, it’s hard not to wish Sushi Girl trips and falls during this social race, so I can cross her like a wheelchair ramp and move up to the next level of the office hierarchy. I might feel guilty about this mindset if I hadn’t started compiling a list of unintentionally offensive comments she’s thrown my way:

“Oh my God! My mom has a pair of heels exactly like that!”

“You belong to a gym? You don’t really look like you’re the ‘working-out’ type.”

“Wow. That bag is so...practical.”

“Oh em gee! You eat bagels! It’s so great that you feel confident enough to have so many carbs.”

“You’re single, right?”

After recounting these woes to a friend who doesn’t mince words, she told me to “buck up” and “get a life.” After all, with the Second Great Depression descending upon us, better to see the big picture and be grateful for the job--excuse me--the paid internship. And yet, I can’t help but be consumed by the personal details of my daily life--the latest being my allergy to Sushi Girl’s personality. Raw honestly served with a well-done appearance is just too hard to swallow.

In a mock public health documentary, high school students are warned about the dangers of modeling. The film's message is that modeling is an addiction little different from drug abuse and that its damage to young women is just as severe.

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It’s a common presumption that New York has the best shopping in the world and therefore anyone who lives in Manhattan is constantly toting around Bendels bags and chic-ed out to the max.

What they forget is that we’re also working our guts out to afford our astronomical New York rent while still having some pocket change left over for Sunday night Chinese food. The pace and pressure of Manhattan life leaves little time in our schedule or space in our budget for pretending to be Carrie Bradshaw. I’m so busy in New York that I have to write “plucking my eyebrows” in my weekly to-do lists in order to ensure it gets done. Time to lounge around in salons?

Schedule leisurely facials?

Romp in and out of stores on a quest for clothes that I can’t afford?

Never happens.

So it’s only when I find myself on vacation or business trips alone, removed from my distracting social life, competing groups of friends, and infinitely stretching to-do lists, that I find a little shopping time.

This Sunday, I was wandering around a foreign city which I’m in for business, exploring the sites on the day I had off with zero intention of playing the shopping game. I’ve never fully understood how the word “shopping” has the ability to excite so many women. I’m a shopper who usually has exactly what I want in mind, which leads to endless searching and inevitable frustration. I’m also not a big fan of dressing rooms, most of which are so small I’m sure the Red Cross would label them inhumane, or of searching for stuff in my size, or of dealing with sales people who hate their lives, or of elevator music, or of waiting in line to pay for things.

Yet here I was with time to kill, no friends to meet, finding myself drawn to a particular window display. One of the mannequins was wearing that eggplant color I’m physically attracted to, so I went in.

I perused the entry room with disappointment, but a fortuitous turn to the left landed me in a younger, hipper room in which everything appeared to be dramatically on sale.

I have to preface this story by explaining that I have a really hard time buying sweaters. Besides being ridiculously picky as all female shoppers are, I have long arms and a long torso. I also only wear V-necks and like my sweaters to be exceptionally long. Nothing is more irritating than when cold air infiltrates the uncovered skin between the bottom of your sweater and the top of your jeans.

These multiple prerequisites eliminate 99.9% of women’s sweaters on the market. Nevertheless, the eternal optimist, I tried on an eggplant colored sweater in my size. I watched my own jaw drop in the mirror as I realized it was… perfect. Not only did it fit my laundry list of sweater requirements with a flattering fit, it had that je ne sais quoi that all great clothes posses – the promise that this article of clothing will give you a sexier, steamier, more G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S life.

I literally laughed when I turned the price tag to reveal the sweater was also at half price. Then I had a flash of insight: if this sweater fit like a dream and was 50% off, all the other sweaters in the section might be as well.

I then embarked on a sweater trying-on frenzy. I was experiencing a fashion solar eclipse in which every article of clothing I was innately drawn too and loved also happened to be dramatically reduced in price. It’s as if all the planets had aligned to finally give me the sweater wardrobe I deserved, and I wasn’t about to let this moment pass me by unprepared. When I found an adorable black zip up coat that made me feel like Audrey Hepburn and saw that it wasn’t just on sale but on clearance, I wanted to shimmy through the store singing “hallelujah” and performing grand jetes.

I only stopped sweater shopping when my sweater bundle became too large for me to physically navigate the store with. At that point, I leapt over to the cashier (where, miraculously, there was no line) and cackled with satisfaction as I signed a ridiculously low credit card receipt in exchange for a new winter wardrobe.

The new dilemma? How to transport my bounty home.

On Friday I went to Lit, a bar on 2nd between 5th and 6th. At first glance, there is nothing “Lit” about it--the front facade is just black with no sign to indicate a name, just tacked up scraps of paper announcing the DJs playing this week. I guess this is a bar you have to know about. My friends know about it so in we go in.


We’d already done the drinking-at-home routine. I’ve become a real wino since getting to New York. Example: I frequent the Trader Joe’s Wine Shop more than its grocery store. I walk into Lit oblivious to my surroundings as we descend to the lower floor of the bar.

Upon entering this overheated underground lair, I realize that I’ve stumbled into Hipsterville.

Let me pause to acknowledge that labeling people is wrong. Parents, teachers, and generally all figures of authority taught me not to judge a book by its cover, but New York is kind of like rushing around in an immense Barnes & Noble. There’s really no time to read beyond that glimpse of the cover. Could it be that it’s more fun just to judge?

Amongst these many titles in New York City, one of the most definitive has to be the Hipster. Lit is swarming with them: a hipster breeding ground.

I don’t know how the males saunter around as they do, because it can’t be easy to move in such tight denim. The jean uniform ranges from straight-leg to skinny. Their v-neck shirts reveal a malnourished sprout of chest hair. When not sporting the deep v-neck, they choose between stripes and plaid.


Females gallivant about in high waisted shorts and leotard tube tops, vintage printed dresses and suede brown booties. I am wearing my Lamé gold headband. From previous experience, I know that this choice in apparel tends to invite criticism, specifically a social syndrome I formerly identified as PHH--Perpetual Headband Harassment.

A tall, dark, almost-handsome guy with a carefully tousled mane and blue vintage tee approaches me.

“Hey,” he says. “Nice headband. I have it in black.”

Did I just experience acceptance? Almost-Handsome walks away, but Lit gets my stamp of approval. And with the DJ playing everything from “Still Fly” by Big Tymers to “Blue,” that Eiffel 65 one hit wonder, to ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” we all shake our hipsters long into the night. (Excuse the pun.)

As I leave the bar around 3:00, I witness a guy in a loose t-shirt and baggy khakis--blaring dress code violation for this place--getting turned away from the bar.

“Only letting in NYU hipster shits,” he spits as he stalks away.

I pause, contemplating this comment.

Am I a hipster shit?

I pass a group of business casual wannabe yuppies with too much gel in their hair and hear someone murmur, “Yo, yo check the headband.”

I spin around.

“Hey, fly headband,” one of them boldly mocks. Laughs follow.

“Yeah, whatever,” I retort with my back already to them, wishing I’d been bold enough to at least flick off the business casual brigade. PPH always leaves me tongue tied. Or maybe it’s just that my headband is Preventing Proper Circulation. Please note, headband enthusiasts, PPC sometimes contributes to the emotional damage caused by PPH.

I self-consciously run my fingers along the gold band.

Am I, in my American Apparel dress and my gold headband, just as hipster as the rest? What’s my cover? Amidst all of my judgments, I’d forgotten that I was just another paperback: easily appraised and not worth a second glance.

Such gloomy self-realizations cannot tarnish my good time at the bar. While it’s easy to define the place as just a hipster hangout, Lit is worth reading between the lines.

It would never occur to me to lock my door. And I figured no one would come in without knocking, but imagine the mutual embarrassment when my mother barged in the room and found me lying on my bed with the computer open to a webpage of girls clad in barely-there bikinis and a headline that proclaimed, “Time to get wet.”

No, I’m not a middle school boy, but rather a twenty-something girl. I’m not surfing the web for porn, I’m shopping at American Apparel. From the way I felt “caught” on their website, I’m beginning to think porn and American Apparel are the same thing.

I tried to act casual, just a couple quick clicks to navigate away from bikinis to fresh summer tanks--like this completely transparent white ribbed one donned by a voluptuous young woman without any futher, um, support. The AA model didn’t exactly help my case, but thank god I found her (not)! I’d been desperately searching for clothing to help me achieve that “Emperor’s New Clothes” look I’d been going for all summer--I just didn’t know how to pull it off without getting arrested. I hear naked is the new clothes anyway. What’s next? A turtleneck with the breasts cut out of it? Transparent track shorts made from vintage shower curtains?


But thank you, AA, for at least raising me up and out of my black hole of online shopping that knows neither time nor space. At least, upon entering the site today, I was immediately reminded that in addition to it being “Time to get wet,” it’s also “Panty time.” According to the instructional picture associated with this headline, during “Panty Time” one strips down to their undergarments and persistently bites another person’s lip, perhaps to the point of drawing blood. Since I’m currently in the company of no one but my parents, I’m going to go ahead and say that American Apparel is currently operating in a completely different time zone.

However, returning to New York will be a different story. Being in the city always brings out the impractical fashion fiend in me, whether I'm eying the knee high gladiator sandals with a suede fringe or the dress some girl is wearing that looks kind of like a sack of potatoes. Once I'm there, anything could happen, and to that I say, bring on the shower curtains.

Stunned in the City here, Miss MB's little sis. I just moved to New York, but with MB showing me the ropes, I think I'll get by. She's graciously given me standing room on her soapbox, and I'm just the beginning. MB wants her entourage of girls to join her, because we all have more than a few things to say about life in NYC. So watch out for a potential redesign (!), though for now it's just a family affair.

But enough about that. Let's move on to something less family-oriented.


So I went to this place on St. Marks that was, you know, fine. Nothing really special about it. In fact, the next day I couldn’t even remember its name until I looked at the picture I’d taken of the front of the building: Hop Devil.

Such a weak first impression may be due, at least in part, to the two bottles of Pinot Grigio I shared with a friend prior to arrival at the bar. Still, though I thought Hop Devil seemed nice enough, it lacked any distinctive qualities. There were no hilarious accidental art installations, no mysterious obstructions in the bathroom, nothing particularly out of the ordinary. It felt as though it was simply the bare minimum.

However, I confess my opinion of the bar has been unfairly clouded due to events of the evening unrelated to the bar itself. Specifically, I found myself to be a victim of PHH.

PHH is not a feminine syndrome, nor a sexually transmitted disease, but rather a situation of verbal abuse caused by cold, hard ignorance. This is not the first time I’ve encountered PHH--Perpetual Headband Harassment--and certainly not the last, but each time it is a personal struggle. That night, I happened to be wearing a gold lamé headband around my head as a garnish to the rest of my outfit. Throughout the evening several people had things to say about it, none of them particularly positive.


Prior to the onslaught of PHH, I had a good enough time at the bar. I ordered a vodka cranberry that tasted heavy on the cranberry. Very heavy. Then I noticed the music that the bar was playing: namely nineties rock-pop groups like Matchbox 20 and the Goo Goo Dolls.

This was the stuff I’d listen to while my mom drove me to the mall in our Ford Taurus station wagon. Incidentally, Ford no longer makes the Taurus and Matchbox 20 and the Goo Goo Dolls no longer make music.

It’s not that there’s anything wrong with listening to these relics of the 90s, but it’s not the kind of music that promotes hedonistic misbehavior, and when a bar named Hop Devil promises “a Hell-uva time,” I expect the music to be in accordance with that kind of attitude.

As I sit at the bar, nursing my vodka mostly-cranberry and contemplating the music choice that persistently chips away at my energy level, I'm addressed by a guy standing to my right: “Why are you wearing that headband?”

“Because I feel like it,” I reply with a shrug. “Why?”

“I’m just wondering why you chose to wear it.”

That’s polite for: I think you look like an idiot. Whatever. What does he know?

Fifteen minutes later, a boy that claims to be twenty-six but appears to be sixteen asks, “What is that headband’s functional purpose?” as though he had raised his hand in science class. This time I respond with a mute shrug. Now I'm a little irritated. I want to ask, What’s the purpose of the collar on your shirt? Is it protecting the hairs unattractively filling in on the back of your neck since your last bad haircut?

Finally, as I leave the bar, walking down St. Marks, I’m suddenly surrounded, literally encircled, by a hoard of young men that couldn’t have possibly been older than 21, if that.

“Nice headband!” is the only jeer from the group as I physically elbow my way out of their drunken, perspiring circle. Gross.

Fashion isn’t always functional, but it’s not as though my headband was dysfunctional. What was it about my little band of gold that elicited so much negative commentary? How is it really any different from wearing a necklace or a bracelet?

It didn’t impede my walking, like a pair of excessively uncomfortable heels or a tight skirt that tends to ride up. It didn’t threaten to expose me in any way, at least not physically, though I have to say, I was feeling a little emotionally vulnerable after being repeatedly interrogated about what exactly it was doing around my head.

Perpetual Headband Harassment strikes again and, as usual, stems from unrest amongst the male population. In my personal experience, girls don’t question it. Still, I felt encouraged the next night when, drunkenly gallivanting around the Union Square, I saw a portly Asian man standing outside a bar, smoking a cigarette and wearing the exact same headband. I walked on, contemplating whether it looked better on him, half sorry that I hadn’t stopped to ask him if he had any personal experience with PHH.

As for Hop Devil, well, like I said, nothing wrong with the place, but my hell-uva time was nowhere in sight. If my headband became more of a circle of hell than the bar itself, that just goes to show how exciting I found the scene there.

At an overtly male SoHo house party last weekend, my eyes scanned past the multiple flat screen TVs showcasing every ESPN specialty channel known to man and landed on an object of true feminine beauty. An exquisite handbag, like an angel with a halo of gold, sat on the dining room table in stark contrast to the macho atmosphere. I sashayed over, grabbed the bag and shook the nearest female asking, “Who made this?” The craftsmanship proved this was a luxury item women would forgo dinner to afford, yet it lacked the anticipated Chanel or Louis Vitton logo. Fortunately for me, the woman I'd harassed introduced herself as Evelina, not only the owner of the bag, but the designer and founder.

This is how I got introduced to the brand Vegan Queen and the concept of eco-luxury accessories. After immediately falling for the bag aesthetically, I fell in love conceptually as well. These handbags are eco-friendly, recyclable, non-toxic, organic, sustainable, cruelty-free and made in the USA. Evelina’s masterfully engineered guilt-free high-fashion. Below I asked her a few questions about the brand, and her recent award nomination.

These bags are both classic and fashion-forward. From what designers do you get your inspiration?

I've worked as a model with many top designers in fashion industry such as Karl Lagerfeld, John Varvatos, Erin Fetherston, and Richard Chai. This helped me greatly in building my own company. Working so closely with this kind of talent was very inspiring. It consequently inspired me to create my own handbag collection – considered eco-luxury.

What are the most important qualities a handbag should posses? Practicality? Design? Reflection on woman's personal style?

All of the above. Vegan Queen represents a new cultural movement towards a sustainable future as well. It’s a socially conscious lifestyle.

Tell me about the award you’re eligible for and what it means to you?

Vegan Queen is honored to be nominated for the IHDA awards in "The Best Green Bag" as well as "The Audience Favorite Bag" 2008. Please check out the VQ "Diamond Bag" It helps us in promoting the Vegan Queen concept that has already been embraced by many celebrities and powerful political figures. I wanted to combine the luxurious aspect of design that I've learned with the vegan philosophy of life that I represent. So being an IHDA finalist is a great recognition.

What's in store next for the Vegan Queen brand?

The Vegan Queen brand is quite new on the market. A few celebrities wear VQ bags such as Natalie Portman, Jennifer Love Hewitt and Heather Mills. The VQ collection will continue to be a work of contrast and signature details. You can expect a lot of colors and sleek, timeless silhouettes.

MB's Introduction:

I’m willing to write about just about anything, regardless of whether I’m an expert or not (examples: the science of pheromones, eyelash extensions). But the one topic I steer clear away from – fashion. I couldn’t assemble a high fashion look to save my life. My Barbie doll mother provides me with most of my tasteful clothes and the only reason I’ve had some shopping success is because of the steady guiding hand of stylish friends. Not to say I’m a train wreck: I know what colors and styles tend to look good on me, but what’s hot right now? Trendy right now? Thick belts or thin? I’d rather you ask me a math problem (and that’s coming from someone who still can’t recite her 8 tables).

So I’ve recruited a legit fashion expert and the only Asian in the city that can blend sophisticated with sexy, frumpy with fun, the remarkably hot Miss Fasian. She’ll occasionally help us out with the Model Behavior style of what we should and should not be wearing without sounding like a lame fashion magazine. Men, her future insights will also apply to you…

Being the first asian student in my class in high school has its consequences. As a fasian, I have fully and completely assimilated to a white culture. I have no accent. I was blonde. I don’t study investment banking. I even have a rack. Don’t get me wrong, I love being asian, but succumbing to stereotypes in general is just not my style. I like to stand out and I accept diversity. I am never afraid to be different in my beliefs, lifestyle, and fashion. As Miss Fasianista, I’ll let you into my world – a world where you can be whoever the fuck you want to be. I know that we all need our limits and a little spoonful of self-control, but…whatever. It’s Miss Fasianista bitch.



Whether you’re fighting off allergies or skipping pass cabs in your favorite flip flops, we all know spring is here. Birds are singing and flowers are blooming. But just because the seasons are changing, does that mean that we have to run to the nearest Bloomingdale’s and buy everything pastel, bright, or floral?

The hottest show on television, Gossip Girl is basically considered a go-to for fashion and style. Most of the time, S and the gang are decked in their nyc’s finest, but I have to say the dresses worn by B, S, and even that ridiculous tangerine ball-of-gross Vanessa is completely uncalled for. Yes, spring is a time to express that flirty side of yourself but there has to be a limit. Instead of a floral dress with matching headgear, the best way to do floral is to make it as sophisticated as possible, otherwise you’ll fall into the category of looking too young and trying too hard to embrace spring fever.

The way I view floral is like someone looking at a pointilsm painting. From far away, you can’t tell if it’s florals, or geometric print or just any other crazy design. But the closer you walk to that garment, you realize that it’s actually floral (or dots). For example, this Giverny-print dress from J.Crew balances the floral and spring colors, using pastels, bold, and jewel. It says spring without saying “omfg”.

You know Miss Fasianista, your slammin yellow sista, is always down for the extreme but even I know that sometimes, less is more…


Versus

On a separate note, do you ever wonder what your Google Ad Sense says about you? Like that episode of Sex and the City where Miranda’s TiVo goes haywire and starts recording programs it thinks she’ll like, and it’s quite telling about her weirdo personality. Google Ad Sense is a reflection of your writing and therefore a reflection on you.

For a long time, I had an Ambien ad up there, which I found thoroughly appropriate because I love Ambien and of course would encourage people to irresponsibly sleep their life / problems away (hey, better than coming out to the club and picking fights). I also had a spa ad up there for a long time. Also cool, I like grooming and hygiene just as much as the next New York women. I also get ‘It’s Just Lunch’ ads, which is appropriate because I’ll probably have resorted to their dating service by ‘09. When I wrote about Brazil, I got ads about Brazilian mail order brides (figures). Most disturbing now however, is that after writing a dating/relationship post I considered wild and romantic, I got ads about sex offenders, violence and ‘protecting our children.’

What kind of reflection is that on my relationships?

Today I picked in a hail storm outside of Viacom (or ViaCON as our posters said) with fellow writers, including the head writers of Sesame Street, SNL and CSI. I’ll spare the photos since we all look like shit. On the bright side, the WGA-East was extremely well prepared with ponchos, umbrellas, cute, fuzzy WGA wool caps and warm bagels. Regardless of these picketing aids, I only lasted an hour and a half. I have zero circulation. I have to blow dry my hands warm on a daily basis when returning home in the winter, even when I wear heavy gloves. Since I was clinging to a brown tube and slushing through the same Times Square mud puddles over and over again, all my extremities went into emergency frostbite mode. When my gloves were completely soaked through and I had to squeeze my index finger over a dozen times to elicit a pain response, I knew it was time to go home and blow dry the icicles out of my hair.

On a separate note, what did women do to the fashion designers of the world that made them create us shoes that look like this?



Do you wear this with a miniskirt? Jeans? Most importantly, what happens when you want to WASH the built in socks? The black version makes me throw up in my mouth slightly less, but this is still unacceptable. I sort of wanted to camp out at this store for ten hours just to see if anyone ever bought them. Then, clearly, I’d proceed to interview them about our country’s mental health clinics and ask if they’d like me to point them to the nearest one.

Alas, I returned home to my trusty blow dryer. Now I need to get back to my rainy day pressing issues (curling under my blankets in the fetal position, occasionally looking at my phone – but never touching it) so I leave you with the only thing that’s made me laugh this entire sleet filled day.

Stay warm.

Spending New Years in New York? Want to party?

(Which I don’t suggest.)

This comprehensive website outlines every single New York club / bar hosting overpriced New Years festivities and allows you to purchase tickets (all in the $100 and up range) for entry, an open bar, and the privilege of being allowed to watch the ball drop in their establishment.

Frightening: This website also has a New Years countdown clock. Like right now it’s 26 days, 12 hours, 44 minutes and 30 seconds till January 1.

Grrraaar! Who cares!?!!?!?!?

Now while $120 may seem reasonable for a 4-hour open bar, don’t be fooled. These people are selling tickets to capacity. Even if you make it into the club without being trampled, your chances of body surfing toward the bar and then actually succeeding in getting a bar tender’s attention are about as likely as Pink Elephant miraculously going bankrupt. It ain’t going to happen. You’re essentially paying to rub up against people…and if that’s your thing, go for it.

In selecting a New York New Years locale, I also highly suggest choosing something within walking distance of where you plan on passing out that night. It’s more likely you’ll stumble across a leprechaun with a pot of gold than a free taxi. And even if you see a free cab, you’ll most likely have to club your fellow Manhatteners to get it. So put a crowbar in your purse.

Now that we’ve covered that horrific topic, onto more bad news…

MANGO one of my favorite European semi-affordable designers has taken up residence on Broadway near Prince Street in SoHo. Now I know what you’re all thinking:

“Model Behavior, shouldn’t you be happy one of your favorite clothing stores is now available walking distance from where you live?”

Me: “NO!”

Perhaps 60% of the chicer part of my wardrobe is Mango, and until now it looked incredibly coveted and unique.

“Amazing top,” some girl would say, “Where can I get it?”

“You can’t,” I’d reply. “It’s Ming by Mango. Only in Europe.”

She’d be crestfallen and I’d get style points, which I need. Despite a background in the world of fashion I have very little natural fashion sense. Am I a bit evil? Perhaps. But Mango was my special thing, and now that they have a Zara-like department store on Broadway.

Nothing’s sacred.

In addition, word’s out that Penelope Cruz is designing for them. I saw her on a Mango billboard and was like, “Yikes, she’s getting old. Good thing she’s pulling in these last minute endorsement deals.”

Now I find out she’s also designing the clothes! Shouldn’t that be left to the professionals? Why aren’t actor-models ever content just being actor-models? Why do they always have to sing, make a fragrance or start a handbag line?

I worry, because the last time I saw Penelope Cruz in Union Square she looked like she’d gotten dressed in a dumpster. And I don’t really buy the whole “woe is me the superstar, I’m trying to blend in excuse,” because she’d have had more success blending in wearing jeans and a sweater rather than the black, wool, seemingly lice-infested mui mui she’d awkwardly wrapped around her frail body: an outfit so horrific I noticed it before I noticed her.

This is the person who’s now designing for my once-favorite, once-Euro, now Americanized clothing store. None of that’s going to be on my Christmas list.

I previously mentioned, I’m not a fashion expert. I just have the good sense to blatantly copy whatever my fashion savvy roommate Tatas is wearing – the dress story being a prime example. So having renounced any claim at expertise, I’ve just gotta say: Would any woman in her right mind wear this?

And it’s been in a SoHo boutique’s front display for WEEKS. I learned at Pink’s space party that silver, pleather-like fabric is unflattering no matter how thin you are. The dresses’ unusual collar / necklace looks like part of an android suit. Can they just ship this thing off to a Star Wars convention already so I don’t have to scrunch my face up at it bi-daily as part of my morning and evening walk?