I always had a passion for flashin'.

I am a firm believer in overdressing.

Catherine Malandrino

Every woman deserves an all out, no designer barred, credit splurge shopping spree. Whether she is generously treated to one from her male love interest or willfuly opens her own wallet to herself, there is one requirement. She must indulge in the experience sans hesitation and regret.

Checking receipts, contemplating prices, and returning items are all major no-no's in the world of shopping spree indulgence. Thus, clutch and Blackberry in hand, I took my undisclosed sum of money, dialed my fav fashionista Giselle, and giddily pranced out of my Manhattan apartment.

As I hopped in Giselle's ride and immediately hit traffic, I questioned why we didn't rough it on the train. She pointed to my casual (okay, not really), yet killer 4-inch Manolo's. Now before you even ask why or am I crazy, please read my disclaimer.

DISCLAIMER: I was born with heels on and haven't been able to remove then since, and to my wallet's detriment, I developed an addiction to designer heels. In my closet, sneakers are for working out, flip flops are for showers after the gym, and heels are for everything in between.

Moving on. Giselle's point was proven. So, we gossiped our way through traffic and headed to our fav shopping spots. Giselle loves boutiques and, being a stylist, she's overly familiar with Manhattan's best "OMG, where did you get that? I love it!!!" boutiques. I love, love, love shopping with her for this very reason. Her eye for detail and style is unparalleled - or, at least, in her world it is.

Thus, when we go shopping, I never ask for her opinion because I already know I'll hear it. She'll gladly offer her two cents, whether or not I want to hear it or like, and she is far from shy when she believes something doesn't work.

"You need to lose about a quater of an inch off of each hip before you can wear that."

"Gi, the dress is my size."

"What size is it?"

"A two."

"Well, maybe if they had it in a 2.5, it'd fit you."

"But it looks good!"

"Wouldn't you rather look great?"

"Point taken."

Despite her lack of tact, she was always right. She wanted better for me, and I wanted better for myself. Thus, regardless of her smart ass comments, I always listened to her reasoning. She knew her shit, and she was proud of it.

"So, what do you suggest? Since you apparently know it all."

"When it comes to fashion, that I do. I'm soooo glad you're finally catching on."

"Shut up, and dress me."

And that she did. She willfully pulled designer after designer - pairing colors against my eyes, selecting cuts that appeared to trim off inches, combining styles that I opposed only to fall in love with once tried on. Although my wallet hates her, my inner shopping diva looooooves her, swoons after her, and is willing to drop everything in order to look fabulous. She is genius.

So genius that she, and she only, could make me forget about my fav designer stores. Although I had my sight set on a pair of Fendi heels for which my precious little feet ached and a few summer styles that my body craved and my closet needed, they became obsolete once Giselle my became my fairy godstylist. Six hours, an undisclosed sum of money (since I can't bear to type it, just yet), and 8,000 laughs and memories later, Giselle and I pranced out of our final boutique - ready to take Manhattan by storm, one avenue at a time.

I am truly living the good life.