Category: fashion

Your Cold Shoulder Top is Upsetting Me

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The world is full of injustice; Bravo’s ‘Gallery Girls’ only got one season, Rihanna hasn’t released an album since 2016, and Jonathan Cheban somehow still has something vaguely resembling a career. The biggest injustice as of late, however, is that the cold shoulder top has actually become a thing.

What is a cold shoulder top you ask? Well first things first, to answer your question, yes, they are one thousand percent as ridiculous as they sound. I would give you a more technical definition but when I went to Google to look for one, the first description I saw used the phrase “casual but classy” to describe a neon pink chevron patterned version of this top. I immediately fell into a rage blackout that I still haven’t recovered from some two weeks later. Maybe it’s because I don’t like any part of my body to be cold (just my demeanor), or maybe it’s because I don’t feel that my shoulders are my best asset, but I really just can’t condone the sartorial nightmare that is the cold shoulder top.

Most women have essential clothing items that they consider wardrobe staples, for most ladies that’s going to include things like a great pair of jeans, a little black dress, a chic coat, and other variations of pieces that are almost universally considered “classics.” There are some women (none that I personally have in my life, small mercies) for whom cold shoulder tops seem to be a critical part of their wardrobe, and although I’m generally against generalizing groups of people, I’ve noticed several things that almost seem to be mutually exclusive to women that wear these hideous tops.

  • Has children named things like: Brixton, Blaze, Maklemily, Maxkenzy, etc
  • Has gotten into an altercation with at LEAST four different t-ball umpires
  • Has one of those stupid stick figure sticker families on the back of their (usually white) SUV
  • Doesn’t give a shit that her $1 off $5 coupon expired in 2011, and thinks she is absolutely still entitled to use it
  • Needs to speak to your manager
  • Likes the “Women for Trump” page on Facebook
  • Thinks chain restaurants like Olive Garden are Michelin star dining experiences
  • Owns a $3,000 purebred dog, but she’ll still share animal rescue posts on social media because she’s such a good person
  • Has a vinyl on the wall above her bed that says “I Love You to the Moon and Back”
  • Loves wine, wine themed throw pillows, puns about wine, is essentially just SUPER f@$#%*& into wine (not like, particularly good wine though).

I could literally make this list at least 1500 bullet points long, but we really don’t have the time for all of that, do we? Look, I’m sure that someone reading this doesn’t fit all or even any of the boxes I checked, but just like when I see a red hat on a guy, your cold shoulder top activates my fight or flight response. I’m not saying that wearing a cold shoulder top makes you a bad person or that not wearing them makes you a good person, all I’m saying is that these shirts are stupid and it’s past time for them to go the way of the statement necklace.

 

Hold Me Closer Not-So-Tiny Dancer

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You know how people talk about the way certain smells can instantly bring back a flood of vivid memories? Admittedly, most of mine involve moments when I get whiffs of certain kinds of alcohol and am transported back to memories (using this term loosely here, as it implies I am remembering all of these incidents) that involve me puking or trying to get into the house without having to speak to my parents (an unsuccessful feat 99.8% of the time).

The other day at work, however, when I stepped into the bathroom to wash my hands after somewhat aggressively eating a pack of Peanut M&Ms, the smell of hairspray transported me to a place that I literally haven’t thought about, except maybe in therapy, for years, the basement of the performing arts center at Wesleyan College in Macon, Georgia.

I’m 10 years old, and my body shape can best be described as a steamed pork bun. I’m wearing red lipstick and a glittered little crop top/flared pants getup that, when paired with the unfortunate bangs I had, was worthy of at LEAST seven felony charges. I am at my dance recital, and although my disastrous ballet performance as a “French Lady” might be over, my jazz performance as an elementary school-aged sensual cowgirl temptress is in about ten minutes.

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If you can’t tell by now, I hated dance, like hated it to the point where I would throw tantrums before class because I hoped if my face got red and tear stained enough I would not have to go. My mom would then get to the point where she did nott want to risk me making a scene at the dance studio in front of other people, and let me skip class. This didn’t happen as often as I would’ve liked, because my mother is from the northeast, doesn’t embarrass easily, and had the audacity to make my brother and I fulfill commitments we had made.

Let me just say that I didn’t hate dance because I was bullied or anything like that, in fact, I met several girls at dance that I still consider friends today. I hated dance because I was terrible at it and I was incredibly aware of just how awful I was. I would watch the taller, more graceful girls glide effortlessly across the floor and convince myself that I absolutely looked like that, when in reality, I more closely resembled some sort of large sea creature that had found itself beached, and was desperately trying to flail it’s way back to the water.

I’m not sure how I ended up taking dance for 13 years of my life when I loathed it so much. Maybe it’s because I was born with exactly zero rhythm and was trying to gain some? That never happened. I even have moments today where I struggle to keep up with the most caucasian of beats (my most humiliating moment to date was when I realized I was clapping off beat at a Taylor Swift concert last summer). Maybe it’s because the good lord saw fit to make sure I sought out therapy as an adult because he knew by that point the people in my life would deserve a break from my constant need to hear myself talk? It could be a lot of things but we really don’t have time for a complete list. However, I did learn a valuable lesson and that was that there were going to be things in life that I wasn’t good at, but had to do anyway (example, I met Lena Dunham at a work event a few years ago and had to pretend to be excited). Challenges like this have ultimately made me a more well-rounded (ish) person. That being said, I sincerely apologize to all those who had to sit through my dance recitals back in the day and had to pretend I had given a Misty Copeland level performance when you saw me afterwards and handed me a congratulatory bouquet. You’re the strongest people I know.

Valentine’s Day is Stupid

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There, I said it! Now, I know that for some people that statement will make you assume that I am a bitter, cynical wildebeest of a person who isn’t capable of feeling love or any other human emotions (You aren’t entirely off base. I’m somewhat emotionally hollow, and after a few carbohydrates can bear a striking resemblance to wildebeests, or really any other creature in the buffalo-ish family). The thing is, I don’t think love is stupid at all, I think it’s beautiful, wonderful, and am fortunate to have a lot of it in my life. I didn’t always feel this way about Valentine’s Day. I used to be pretty indifferent about it, but then Instagram influencers became a thing and suddenly I found myself loathing a whole lot of things I used to not care about at all.

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I’ve started doing something that’s probably not that great for me, and I call that thing “hate reading.” Meaning, I go to the social media accounts of those I loathe and look at all the absolutely terrible things they do and say (also, if you say you never do this, you’re probably, and by probably I mean, definitely a huge liar). This morning, I got up, got some work done, smiled at all the cute photos of significant others and babies people I actually like in real life were posting, reminisced about my favorite gifts of V-Days past (6th grade, my mom got me a t-shirt from Abercrombie and a bottle of what would become my signature scent until 10th grade, Tommy Girl), laughed at a few memes, and consumed way too much coffee, a good, pretty standard Wednesday morning for me, that is until Instagram’s algorithm decided that for, whatever reason, I deserved to suffer.

An “Influencer” I make a very express point of not following, for the sake of my own mental health, had posted a series of photos with her “lover” (Unless you’re Will Ferrel and/or Rachel Dratch, let’s never use this word again, thanks) where they were oh so candidly indulging in unhealthy food (which of course, was nowhere near her actual mouth), with an attached post so badly written (as the person who writes the posts on this blog, I think you can all agree that if I post what I do with some semblance of confidence, and call someone else’s writing terrible, it’s pretty bad). So, I get to the end of this millennial manifesto of a blog post (but not before rolling my eyes, audibly groaning, and saying “calm it down, Rupi Kaur” several times under my breath), and see that the whole thing is literally sponsored by a brand.  I promptly fight the urge to cloak myself in all black, and skulk around New York City informing everyone that love is dead.

Look, I’m not trying to burst anyone’s heart shaped bubble here, but if we’ve gotten to the point where a day that is (allegedly) supposed to be about celebrating the love in our life is just another day where I must suffer through your horribly written, incredibly staged #SponsoredContent and watch other people consume it like it’s some sort of aspirational thing, please, get Valentine’s Day as far away from me as possible. As far as my plans for tonight that you absolutely had no intention of asking about? I’m attending a Soul Cycle class, coming home to indulge in a ridiculously overpriced skincare regimen, and go to bed, as I always do, fervently praying that I never have to see someone use the hashtag #InstaGood ever again.

 

 

 

What Happened to My Wig? Melodrama Happened.

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My hiatus from this blog has been long, and I’d apologize if I thought anyone gave even one iota of what the kids call, “a shit.” I could give a whole laundry list of excuses as to why, but really, at the end of the day, it really just boils down to the broad umbrella of “adulthood.” So, what could’ve possibly had the power to draw me out of hiatus? Lorde’s sophomore album, Melodrama, that’s what.

I don’t think I’ll quite every to be able to “fully process” the absolute wigging, I mean the actual SNATCHING of my hair straight down to the follicles that Ella Marija Lani Yelich-O’Connor (nope, you didn’t just have a stroke, that’s her full name!) aka Lorde aka supreme of the pop girl coven aka the alt queen aka a young, brunette Stevie Nicks delivered to me via Melodrama, but, there isn’t any time like the present to give the track by track breakdown of this album that exactly nobody asked for, so, *cracks knuckles,* let’s get into it, shall we?

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  1. Green Light- An absolute BOP. It’s one of those songs that when I’m elderly and slightly tipsy at a cookout, will start to play and I’ll stand my arthritic ass up as I look at my grandchildren and start to do some terribly caucasian geriatric dance and say “now what ya’ll know about this?! Ya’ll don’t know nothing about this!”
  2. Sober- The beginning of this song serves up some dim-lit bad college poetry reading bongo drum vibes, but then, out of nowhere, some sort of animal and/or Jack Antonoff starts screeching at me and all of the sudden I’m all “OKAY LORDE! QUEEN OF THE WEEKEND AND NOT BEING SOBER F&*$ IT UP SIS!” And that change in the beat at 2:35? I’m sorry, I think I just legitimately went bald. Conclusion? I’ll sway/go astray with Lorde straight to hell, run and tell THAT!
  3. Homemade Dynamite- When I say that I dropped it so low when the beat came in as she said “So let’s let things come out of the woodwork” I actually mean that my flat, white ass was on the floor convulsing and simultaneously googling how to make explosives (not really, calm your tits, NSA). A fun fact, “I’ll give you my best side, tell you all my best lies” is what I say to my co-workers on Thursday nights when I’m trying to convince them I won’t be coming into the office hungover the next day.
  4. The Louvre-*does whatever broadcasting the boom boom boom boom is while simultaneously dancing/weeping*
  5. Liability-Gay. This song is completely gay. This song is so gay that Mike Pence wants to send it to conversion therapy. Don’t let anyone tell you it isn’t. How is Lorde going to go home to the arms of the girl that she loves if that girl is her own damn self? Are her arms the length of octopus tentacles? Next heterosexual, nonsensical excuse, Ella.
  6. Hard Feelings/Loveless-Lorde clearly has been following me around/wire tapped my phones/put cameras in my house because there isn’t any other plausible explanation for how ~*relatable*~ this song is in terms of every emotion I’ve ever felt/will feel about certain exes.
  7. Sober II (Melodrama)-Starts off as a nice AHS: Coven style lullaby of sorts, ends with me wanting to go out and HEAUX around. Iconic.
  8. Writer in the Dark-Lorde essentially threatens to completely END a man using nothing but her talents, but also manages to be somewhat both condescending and patronizing. There are not adequate words to describe how 1000% HERE I am for this entire scenario.
  9. Supercut-*see thoughts on Hard Feelings/Loveless*
  10. Liability (Reprise)-This song is so gay there’s a few places in the midwest that won’t even serve it pizza (Reprise).
  11. Perfect Places-Song of the summer. Song of the year. Song of the millennium. Everyone else can go home and stay there.

In conclusion, I hope that anyone who hasn’t yet given this future Album of the Year Grammy snatching masterpiece a listen, does so immediately. You’ll dance, you’ll cry, you’ll want to run off to New Zealand and petition for Lorde to legally adopt you. No on that last bit? That’s just me? I’m okay with that.

Can Life Ever Be Simple Again?

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I know that my absence from this blog since mid-October has probably been really tough on all six of you (I’m probably being a bit generous numbers wise here) that check this dumpster fire of a website in any sort of even semi frequent fashion, but, I’m back. If we’re being completely honest, I haven’t really been in the mood to write since the election, you know, the day that America decided that the (grossly unqualified) human equivalent of the result of me cleaning out my hairbrush with Cheeto dust covered fingers was better fit to be President than someone, who, though imperfect, had some grasp on what the job entails, (and the self control not to Tweet like I used to when I was drinking a lot in college).

In my humble, non political opinion (aka don’t give me shit for this on Facebook, I don’t have the energy to argue with anyone who wants me to give people like Stephen Bannon aka what a hangover would look like if it was a white supremacist, a “chance”), America hasn’t seen division like this since 2005, a division that caused a Von Dutch trucker hat shaped wound that, for some, like myself, hasn’t ever really healed. In case you were wondering, yes, I am in fact referring to the feud between Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton. To summarize, at the premiere of her movie “House of Wax” Paris said that she and Nicole weren’t friends anymore, they never would be, and she wouldn’t comment further. Of course she did, even going as far as to write a song about Nicole (“Jealousy”) and put it on her album. Essentially, Paris accused Nicole of being jealous of her being more famous, which subsequently lead to them feuding, which gave birth to one of my top three favorite Hollywood rumors of all time, which was that on the night Paris hosted Saturday Night Live, Nicole gathered friends at her home and instead of playing them Paris’s SNL episode, Nicole played Paris’s sex tape, “One Night in Paris.”

Eventually, the two girls “mended” their relationship, but never really were quite as close again. As the years passed, the differences between the two became even more blatant, and the reality television dream team that had once changed a Sonic Drive In sign to say “1/2 Price Anal Salty Weiner Burgers” was no more. The painful divide becomes even more apparent when you take a look at the stark differences between Paris and Nicole’s Instagram accounts these days (thanks for the tip Stuart). On one hand we have Paris, who is enjoying her current tour as a DJ in various nightclubs around the world, and on the other we have Nicole who looks more like a Brooklyn mom who makes her own soaps and doesn’t vaccinate her kids.

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Why does this sound familiar? A great divide between two famous former friends, one, a fan of all things gold plated, and the other, who it’s not very difficult to visualize wandering the wooded hiking trails near Chappaqua, presumably looking for a f&%$ to give. Obviously I’m not comparing a silly feud between two reality stars to the current political reality our country is facing, after all, reality television has no place within our political system, right? Oh, but wait, I’m forgetting this is 2016, a year that took Prince, Bowie, and one that possessed people to write in the name of a dead gorilla on their ballots during the Presidential election.

Is this the path our country is going to take? Will we continue to remain so starkly divided? With an overwhelming (if you’re getting your election figures from someone like walking, real life goblin, Ann Coulter) number of people seeming to have such a hard on for all things Midas themed and spray tanned that they’re all able to conveniently forget what the kids call “all the super shameful, shady, and racist shit” that has gone on, and the rest of us scratching our heads and wondering what the actual hell is happening, I can’t really say. I can only hope that one day, unlike Paris and Nicole, we’ll all be able to sit down together, and enjoy a bounty of 1/2 Price Salty Anal Weiner Burgers from Sonic together, just as our founding fathers (aka Lionel Richie and Richard Hiton) intended.

So, You Think You Speak J.Crew?

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It should come as a surprise to absolutely nobody that kitschy marketing campaigns really aren’t my thing, I have exactly zero patience for them, and quite honestly, I am only capable of showing actual, human emotion about things that involve animals. That being said, recently J.Crew launched a marketing campaign called “Do You Speak J.Crew?” in which they essentially have revealed that they have an in house library (because, of course they do) where they comb through books to come up with the names for colors such as “Casablanca” “Antique Navy” and “Blue Whale.” Honestly, while this type of thing would normally make me audibly groan (okay, so maybe it did) I wouldn’t be able to maintain the “middle aged suburban soccer mom” aesthetic that I’ve worked so hard to build over the years without J.Crew. I also really like Jenna Lyons, and given the rough past few years the brand has had, I worry about what would happen to Jenna should the House of Crew fold. Although, I personally think she could make a killing in Ruth Bader Ginsburg look alike contests, or maybe land a role as a young Notorious RBG in the inevitable upcoming bio pic about her life. Don’t believe me? Seriously, see the below picture. Anyway, moving on.

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I get what J.Crew is trying to do here, however, personally I think they could’ve come up with color names that are more “on brand” and show that they really do know their target audience, so I took the liberty of compiling a list of suggestions.

  • “Nullified Pre Nup Purple”
  • “Gin & Tonic Lime(s) Green”
  • “Adderall Blue”
  • “Temporary Restraining Order Tweed”
  • “Hospitalized for ‘Personal Issues’ Houndstooth”
  • “Trust Fund Teal”
  • “Privileged White”
  • “Worse Case Scenario Wisteria”
  • “Emergency Xanax Ecru”
  • “Second Husband Slate Grey”
  • “Functional Alcoholic Fuchsia”
  • “I Told Him I Was On Birth Control Indigo”
  • “Curated Instagram  Coral”
  • “Delusions of Grandeur Denim”
  • “New York Times Wedding Announcement Navy”

I’ll admit that I do feel like somewhat of a self deprecating hypocrite to be writing a post like this, mocking one of my wardrobe mainstays at this exact moment considering I’m currently wearing a Ralph Lauren button down, an Ann Taylor sweater that has rabbits all over it, grey J.Crew pixie pants, and a pair of Topsiders that desperately need replacing*, but, like I said, my personal brand aesthetic is very much centered around being the type of woman you see at a kid’s soccer game and say “Is there whiskey in that Dunkin Donuts coffee cup? There’s definitely probably whiskey in that Dunkin Donuts coffee cup” (don’t worry mom, there’s not). No shade intended (-ish). Call me Jenna!

*No, you’re not reading my birth date wrong, I am actually 26 years old. 

We Need To Talk About Statement Necklaces

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If there’s one word I feel pretty safe omitting from the “Adjectives to Describe Grace’s Personal Style” list, it’s “trendy.” This probably has something (everything) to do with the fact that you can usually find me dressed like a suburban, Connecticut soccer mom, who “maybe, probably, most definitely” has Gin in her Dunkin Donuts coffee cup. The only exception to this tends to be on more formal occasions, when I instead choose to take my style cues from rich, older, Upper East Side widows. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti trend, I’m just self aware enough to know that while some people might look chic in a pair of adult overalls, I’m more than likely going to fall somewhere in between “First Grader with a Thyroid Problem” and “House Painter.” That being said, there is one trend I just can’t wrap my head around, and that is the Statement Necklace.

I know what you’re thinking, Statement Necklaces, aren’t exactly new, so maybe they don’t fall under the whole “trend” umbrella, maybe they really have withstood the test of time. This is exactly why I consider them to be the herpes of the accessories world; even if they aren’t everywhere/all up in your face like they were in 2009/2010, all it takes is an accidental trip into the jewelry section of Target to be cast down into Bubble Necklace Hell. Would I classify myself as completely anti statement jewelry? No, in fact, I’m not being dramatic at all when I say that I would literally die for Madeline Albright’s pin collection, but as far as people trying to pass off giant collars comprised entirely of bright chunks of plastic/shards of glass as “chic” and “fashion forward?”

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Maybe it’s because I just don’t get wanting to “glam up” a t-shirt and jeans ensemble with what essentially appears to be the grown up version of those spray paint dry pasta necklaces children make in pre school. If I’m in casual clothing, you can bet the last thing I’m going to do is hang an art deco albatross around my neck. The more likely scenario is me trying to blend in with the shadows like the soulless, pale vampire my makeup-less face and the doughnut glaze stain on my shirt suggest I am.

At the end of the day, apart from the aesthetic assault the majority of these pieces of neon hued nightmare jewelry inflict on me, I think the name is really just what makes my eyes roll all the way into the back of my head. Exactly what “statement” are you trying to make? That you have the word(s) “classy” “belle” and/or “sassy” somewhere in your Social Media handle(s)? That you’re the type of person who’s favorite cocktail is Diet Coke with Vodka (it’s absolutely not a cocktail by the way, it’s high school/freshman year of college desperation, don’t get it twisted)? That you’ve referred to yourself as a “future housewife” at some point, and were completely serious?

Please, enlighten me! Just what is your giant, brightly colored, gaudy neckwear trying to tell me? Because the only thing it’s communicating to me, before you even open your mouth, is that it’s incredibly likely that I am going to find you absolutely insufferable.

The Things We’d Actually #ShareADietCoke With..

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It might shock you to discover that I am not someone who is all that impacted by the feel good campaigns that brands tend to run in order to make our world a better place*. Obviously I’m kidding about that shocking you, anyone who has spent more than a few minutes with me knows that unless it deals with animals, I don’t care, and more often than not perky ad campaigns will just leave me feeling nauseous.

Case in point: Coca Cola’s #ShareACoke campaign, which encourages consumers to Share a Diet Coke with BFF, VIP, a couple hundred really random first names, Mom, Dad, the winky “DTF? slash U Up?” emoticon etc. Maybe it’s because I never found my name (#StillBitter), or just because I find the premise ridiculous, but I’ve taken the liberty to compile a list of things that most people are more likely to #ShareADietCoke with.

#ShareADietCoke with Delusions of Grandeur

#ShareADietCoke with Your Abandonment Issues

#ShareADietCoke with Self Loathing

#ShareADietCoke with that “I forgot to take my Birth Control” Panic Attack

#ShareADietCoke with that Plan B Pill

#ShareADietCoke with those Wine Induced Texts You Sent Last Night

#ShareADietCoke with Your Hangover

#ShareADietCoke with Commitment Issues

#ShareADietCoke with Your False Sense of Entitlement 

#ShareADietCoke with That Think Piece You Just Read

#ShareADietCoke with Curated Social Media Accounts 

#ShareADietCoke with That Super Informative Buzz Feed Quiz You Just Took

#ShareADietCoke with the “Still Watching?” Message on Netflix

#ShareADietCoke with Sallie Mae

#ShareADietCoke with the Downfall of JCrew

#ShareADietCoke with Your Seamless Delivery Guy

#ShareADietCoke with that Person from High School you’re stalking on Social Media

#ShareADietCoke with Your Fleeting Mortality

#ShareADietCoke with Your Tinder Matches

Just kidding about that last one, you’re never sober around those!

*sell their products

A Few Choice Words regarding Kitten Heels..

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Where do they get off? Look, I get it, the fifty-something, sad divorcee crowd needs a shoe to cram their cankles into when they’re heading to their local California Pizza Kitchen for yet another E-Harmony date, but they have absolutely no business on the feet of any individual under the age of 45.

Kitten Heels were developed (by Lucifer) in the 1950’s, and since most fashion trends from that time period are dead, it’s pretty disturbing that people are still trying to pass them off as legitimate footwear. Also, the name couldn’t be any worse, I mean, Kitten Heels? The phrase makes my skin crawl, almost as much as the words “moist” and “panties” (don’t worry, that chill that just crawled up your spine? I felt it too).

One of the biggest arguments for Kitten Heels is made by tall girls who don’t want to tower over everyone around them, but still want to wear a heel and s#$%. Here’s a newsflash, if you’re already really tall, a couple inches added by a pair of pumps isn’t going to be something I notice. What I am going to notice is the creepy baby heels you’re wearing look like the should come with a complimentary set of varicose veins.

The other argument for these atrocities is that they are more comfortable than their taller, more legitimate counterpart. Guess what? Those blisters will fade, and chances are you’ll be too intoxicated to realize that they’re there until you sober up the next day, but do you know what won’t fade? Wearing shoes that make you look like the type of girl that claps and says “Yay!” when her pancakes arrive at brunch. Either way I’m going to be judging you, because you’re in Kitten Heels, and because we both know you consumed plenty of calories in liquid form the night before.

Some might say that my anger and disgust for Kitten Heels is excessive and misplaced, after all, “they’re just shoes.” If you’re spending your time psychoanalyzing my hatred for a particular genre of footwear, you should probably find a hobby, and then remember we’re discussing shoes that get their name from an animal that takes it’s s%&*$ in a box.

It takes a lot to get me to commit to something, and there aren’t that many cases in which I choose to do so. Exceptions include, my job, ordering iced coffee even when it isn’t seasonally appropriate, refilling my Adderall prescription, and avoiding the bars in my hometown like a rampant case of herpes when I’m visiting my parents.

There’s another area of my life I choose to make definite commitments in, and that’s footwear. There are heels, and then there are flats, heels are generally always appropriate, unless I’m scraping myself off of my bed on a Saturday morning long enough to go out and get food, then I’ll throw on a pair of flats. What I’m not going to do is put on a pair of shoes that make it look like I’m being held up by two infant thumbs, and you shouldn’t either.

Why Black is the Supreme of the Color Coven

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Unless you’ve been living under a rock since 2013, chances are you’ve heard of American Horror Story: Coven, even if you’ve never actually watched it. Arguably, Coven is the best season of Ryan Murphy’s AHS franchise, but I may be slightly biased because it combines a few of my favorite things, which include, but aren’t limited to, Jessica Lange smoking cigarettes, Jessica Lange drinking, sassy one liners, Jessica Lange rolling her eyes, and the color black.

For those who haven’t seen the show (get on that), here’s a quick rundown. Basically, young witches come into a “Coven” in New Orleans where they are introduced to the concept of a Supreme (aka Queen Jessica Lange). A Supreme is basically the HBIC of the Coven, and each generation a new one surfaces. The Supreme is generally discovered by her ability to perform the “Seven Wonders” which are essentially seven hard as s#$% witch tasks.

Anyone who has known me for any extended period of time knows how deep my love and devotion for the color black runs. It compliments my icy stare perfectly, and the fact that it matches everything means when it comes to putting together an outfit, it requires minimal effort, which I am 110% here for. As I was re-watching Coven last year in preparation to join my own Coven (meaning, I was going to see Fleetwood Mac at Madison Square Garden) I realized that the color Black is the true Supreme, because it totally performs all Seven Wonders. So, because I’m a sucker for slightly dated Pop Culture references, I decided to break it down for you.

Telekinesis (AKA Moving things with Your Mind): In my experience, nothing parts a group of tourists moseying down Broadway on a Saturday faster than a sensible all black getup and a stare that says “Your existence is making it extremely hard to tolerate being alive right now, please move.”

Concilium (AKA Controlling Someone Else’s Mind): The “Little Black Dress” is a thing for a reason. As his holiness Karl Lagerfeld once said, “One is never over-dressed or underdressed with a Little Black Dress.”

Transmutation (AKA Taking Another Form): Personally, when I’m wearing black (as in, 98% of my life) I’m able to feel more like Posh Spice, instead of like the sixth Spice Girl I usually feel like, someone who I’ve named, “Eleven Secret Herbs and Spice.” (For the record, yes, that was a KFC reference, don’t look at me).

Pyrokinesis (AKA Controlling Fire with Your Mind): See 3:05 in Taylor Swift’s “Bad Blood” music video.

Descensum (AKA Road Tripping to Your Personal Hell and Back): I perform this task every day when I take the 6 Train to and from work, but nothing makes me feel more protected from the woman across from me peeing her pants (yep, that happened) than being cloaked in licorice colored clothing.

Vitalum Vitalis (AKA Draining Your Life Force to Save Someone Else): Black keeps me honest, in the sense that while I’m wearing it, I find it easier to say things like “Put down that neon tote that says “Eat Cake for Breakfast” and walk away slowly” instead of “OMG that’s so totally you, you better buy it!”

Divination (AKA Seeing the Future): Anything worth buying is also worth buying in black, because no matter how many Pantone colors of the year come and go, black will always be in style.

Maybe these rambling comparisons only made sense to me, but black is near and dear to my heart, and no, not just because they’re the same color. To sum it all up, I’ll leave you with a quote that launched a thousand memes: “I’ll stop wearing black when they invent a darker color.”