NOLA Part II: Satan Moonlights as Rachel Zoe

Lets start out with this little jewel of information: Sometimes I do things with out really thinking them through. Sounds innocent enough, right? Like Sunday night when I made toast, poured myself a big glass of cold milk, and settled down with my new Women's Health... And I realized that my skim milk had gone reaaaaally bad (I'm talking chunks bad).... but only AFTER I had taken a big ole gulp of it.

Yeah.

I'm gagging a little now just thinking of it.

But really, I do silly stuff like that quite often. I just get an idea in my head, and I just sort of run with it... whether that thought is "OHH Jesus, Momma needs some yummy breakfast for dinner." or say...."Oooohweee sexy strappy hooker heels?! Perfect for NOLA..."

(Some of you see the direction this is headed. For everyone else, the point of this post is to show I'm nowhere near the perfect hair/perfect red lips/so in love with everything that makes KLaw cringe.)

So. New Orleans. Fabulous girls weekend.

My partner in crime for the weekend was the amazing and oh-so fashionable, SKing. The girl talks about Louis, Channel, and Manolo like they're old childhood friends. And although she could easy rock out a t-shirt and jeans, she overdresses for everrrrything. Not hatin'. Just saying she looks uber fab on any occasion.

So in the days leading up to our rendezvous with the Big Easy, I get to thinking that this weekend would be the time to step up the fashion game. "Heck," I think, "I used to be a fashion major. I'm certainly not afraid of the sassy. I've just gotten lazy."

In the sweaty haze of trying on 934 outfit combinations, I settle on a heatherd grey v-neck, a black leather skirt, a red Members Only jacket, and the fiercest strappy ankle booties I have ever seen. Never mind the fact that I think ankle booties make my legs look like tree trunks. I was going to sacrifice them in the name of fashion...

In the hotel on Saturday night, we were a little behind schedule so we raced to throw on our outfits, scrub off a little bit of our tranny make-up (Thank you to both MAC Cosmetics and Florescent Lighting. You kids are awesome), and straighten our hair that was already matted with sweat from running up Canal.

In the split second that I had to spare I scanned the mirror and imagined a little Rachel Zoe on my right shoulder uttering "I die." and a little Mayra on my left cooing "Bananas!" as she eyed my shoes.

I felt fab.

Until 2 minutes later...

As we trucked it down Bourbon street.

I could feel the sticky sweat start to roll down my back, so I ripped off the jacket and checked my watch.

Cursing and picking up the pace, I began to do that reallllly lame half-jog as I weaved in and out of traffic. Thats when I noticed the zippered back of my skirt was now in the front... WTF?!

Turns out the leather skirt was quickly moving up and around as I walked. No wonder I was hearing so many "Damn Girl..."'s from the Bourbon folk.

I die.

No really.

I die of mortification.

By the time I got to One Eyed Jacks, I had to duck into the shadow to adjust just about everrrrything. and sadly the rest of the night went much the same way - lots of unintentional skin, lots of adjusting, lots of swearing and moaning in pain.

Fast forward to the next morning: my thighs were literally purple from chaffing because the skirt was so fitted/didn't breathe, my feet ached so badly that I cringed to even think of walking, annnnd I had a 3 inch long blister on my feel from my oh-so fierce shoes.

Kora's NOLA Fashion: epic. fail.

Worst. Outfit. Ever.

Got that?