Outfit Post: Miranda Kerr wants you to know about her underwear

Allow me to share a cringe-inducing little tidbit from a recent People Magazine:

Miranda Kerr’s flawless post-baby body has everyone a little jealous. The Victoria’s Secret Angel, mom to son Flynn, 4 months, with husband Orlando Bloom, bounced right back after giving birth, even hitting the runway in a Paris fashion show.  The model mom says she’s most comfortable when she’s “just in knickers,” hanging around the house with Bloom and Flynn. “People have come to the house and I’m just in my knickers,” she reveals. “[But] I feel like it’s more appropriate to have knickers on than being completely naked.”

If pressed, I'll admit that I've engaged in a few innocent dalliances with US Weekly and People. I have read more than my fair share of exposes on the size and incubation of one's baby bump; the botched plastic surgery attempt of certain b-list celebrities; and pages and pages of baby daddy gossip. I've taken those insipid little tests regarding what my perfume says about my personality, which real housewife I would be in real life, and which celebrity hot spot I should visit during my next luxury vacation (hello, Phuket.) I've examined photos to determine which starlet wore those hideous peach jeans the best. Apparently, this is a thing right now. Peach-colored jeans WILL BE the next blogger red pants. Put your money on it. I've studied Candy Spelling's floorplan and wept white hot tears over the breakups of Courtney Cox and David Arquette/Christina Aguilera and Jordan Brattman/Renee Zellweger and Bradley Cooper. Actually, that last one I'm not so torn up about. Because it means Bradley is available, and I have a shot. Bradley, call me.

Anywhoo. I have been there, people. So I suppose that's why I wasn't so shocked by Miranda Kerr's "I'm so squeally suuuuppppeeeeerrrr comfy in my knickers, teehee" comment. For one thing, once your eyes have been photo-raped by Britney Spears' c-section scar (hello, panty-less crotch shot summer of 2006) you've seen it all. For the time being, let's ignore the snarky, insulting message that Miranda lost her baby weight faster than you did, you fat cow, can't you get your lazy ass off the couch? It's the prancing around the house in her undies that I'd like to focus on. Ms. Kerr is a Victoria's Secret supermodel. Either she's totes getting paid to gush about wearing her undies around the house, or she's a devoted fan of underwear in general. I have no doubt that Miranda spends hours lounging around her immaculately decorated ocean-front limestone mansion in nothing more than a pair of lacy boyshorts and a boned corset three sizes too small for her heaving bosom. She and Orlando probably spend hours having sex on top of the changing table and heating up bottles and preparing homemade baby food in less clothing than their entire baby's layette. I suppose her friends should be happy she wears clothes at all. Naked time for everyone! Weeee!

Personally, when I think of a comfortable choice in clothing to wear hanging around the house, I do not think of my underwear. Underwear is designed to stay under clothes - whether they be leggings and tee shirts or sweatshorts or whatever. I did not grow up in a naked house. My parents were firm believers in sheathing our naked bits in layers of clothing, preferably made from wool. And even now, as a fully grown adult, I don't prance around the house in my skivvies. I can only imagine the horror this behavior would cause - the assault of a splash of hot oil against my uncovered stomach while cooking dinner; the giggling of my children as I emptied the dishwasher; the outright staring of the UPS man when accepting a package; the snickers from friends while serving up cocktails in a push-up bra and satin tap pants. Nope, when I want to be comfortable around the house, I dress in ancient pairs of Old Navy sweats and college tees and maybe, if I'm feeling risque, a Gap body tank.

I'm truly curious to find out if you hang around the house in your underwear. Is this something you're comfortable with? Do you enjoy being naked at home? Why or why not? What do you throw on at the end of the day?

Vintage thrifted silk shirt; vintage Ann Taylor silk skirt; Old Navy belt; vintage thrifted Coach satchel; White Mountain clogs; thrifted (St. Vincent de Paul) Michael Korrs watch; Forever 21 rhinestone bracelet

Outfit Post: The labels we wear on the inside

This past Saturday night I went to see the Black Angels with Erin of Work With What You've Got. It was loud, and hot, and the audience was at capacity with bearded and ponytailed twenty-something hipsters in black concert tees, skinny jeans and Chucks. The venue smelled like beer and pot and cigarettes and a million other unidentifiable odors. I wore a fetching ensemble composed of a Forever 21 hot-pink leopard sports bra under a lace trapeze top, paired with a thrifted vintage black skirt and black leather platform sandals. With my tattoos and bright red hair, I thought I blended in pretty well, despite the fifteen year-age difference between me and the rest of the crowd. After five hours of talking and singing and yelling and dancing and people-watching, I eventually crawled home after one o'clock in the morning. All in all, it was a fantastic night.

However, on Sunday morning I was in serious pain. I couldn't hear out of my left ear. My throat was raw. My head ached something fierce. And my feet were sore from hours spent in those platforms (which I wore despite warnings from my husband that they'd make me a cripple before the night was over. Okay, husband, you were right. There, I said it.) I spent most of the day popping Advil and lying on the couch curled in a fetal position.

In the wake of my post-concert trauma, I started to question whether I should have attended the event in the first place. I wondered about the condition of the other concert-goers the next morning. Were they suffering from pounding headaches and sore throats? Did their feet hurt? And the came the inevitable questions: Was I too old to have been there? Did I look ridiculous? Were my days of late nights behind me? Did I belong at home, watching depressing sitcoms on CBS and clipping coupons for things like Sunsweet prunes?

While pondering these questions, I was reminded of a recent post on Psychology Today about the internal labels we carry. The author explored the life-long struggle many of us have to shake off the limits we think define us. Often these labels have been internalized for years, and the fight against them can feel like a never-ending challenge.

Reading this article led to some fairly deep introspection. I mentally flipped through ways I label myself.

"You're too old to stay up until all hours."
"You're too fat to wear those skinny jeans."
"You can't shop in that store."
"You're not talented enough to be a writer."
"You can't make a long road trip by yourself."
"You're not stylish/cool/youthful enough to wear that outfit."
"You're not fit enough to run a 10k."
"You shouldn't leave the house without make-up."

Labels have a way of sticking around. Often they've been adopted following a traumatic event or conversation with an important person in your life. My mother was a strict enforcer of rules, and I grew up believing that there were certain things I just couldn't do because they were inappropriate, unbecoming or unladylike. That included wearing certain types of clothes, staying out late, or even going places alone. Growing up with such strict limits also discouraged me from even trying to challenge them - why have hope when I'm just going to fail? The defeatist, pessimistic nature of labels keeps us confined and crippled by self-doubt and insecurity. Criticism from a boss, close friend, or teacher can also reinforce the ways we label ourselves. Sometimes it only takes the slightest reminder to trigger our biggest fears and doubts.

Thankfully, I'm determined to challenge the ways I label myself. Despite the fears that I was going to look redonk, I wore that neon leopard bra. I danced and sang at the top of my lungs and stayed out late. And I had a fantastic time. My morning after guilt is inevitable after challenging myself, but it's no excuse for me to continue to abide by labels.

Do you believe that you have internalized labels that limit yourself from being who you are? What are some ways you label yourself? Are there things you believe you just can't or shouldn't do? What do you do to challenge these labels?

Thrifted Target tuxedo jacket; Forever 21 lace tank; Forever 21 sports bra; thrifted vintage skirt; White Mountain sandals; thrifted vintage Coach satchel; TIKKR watch; Forever 21 rhinestone bracelets

Outfit Post: An exploration of the blogger over-apology

Like most bloggers, I am an obsessive reader of other blogs. I subscribe to nearly 100 through Google Reader, stalk others through Twitter, and catalog a different group on Bloglovin'. I love reading the thoughts of other bloggers, seeing outfit of the day pics, and getting shopping recommendations and beauty tips. I've even gone so far as to meet other bloggers in person, and made some friends I hope to keep for a long time.

However, ever since I started reading blogs, one pattern has become evident. It seems that for every blogger posting an outfit or thoughts regarding summer trends, there's another apologizing for not posting more, not having "better" photos, not wearing a blog-worthy outfit (what does that even mean?), not writing enough, not writing like 'X" blogger does, not participating in a challenge, or for some other reason they feel they are inadequate. I myself have been guilty of this. It makes me wonder - why do we feel the need to apologize?

If you're like many women, saying "I'm sorry" has become a habit, something you murmur before asking a stranger the time or telling the cashier they've given you the wrong change. Experts observe that women apologize more often than men and for a wider variety of reasons. The fear of conflict is a big reason why many women over-apologize. “Women are hard-wired to focus on cooperation and community, versus competition and confrontation, the way men are,” says Beverly Engel, author of The Power of Apology. And according to Dr. Susan Gaddis, of communicationsdoctor.com, "Women say, ‘I'm sorry’ much more than men because of our nurturing nature and our desire to make everyone happy.”

There's nothing wrong with apologizing in and of itself. Taking responsibility for our impact on others; acknowledging our own mistakes and shortcomings; and restoring connections and trust with those we've wronged (which is what authentic apologizing is all about) are essential qualities of mature relationships and living a fulfilled life.

However, the problem becomes when we start apologizing for who we are. When we're telling our readers that we're sorry for not posting more, or not dressing more blog-worthy, or not participating in a challenge, we're communicating that we're not good enough, and our blogs are not good enough. We're putting ourselves in a position to be judged. We're essentially saying, "I'm bad; it's my fault; don't hate me; don't leave me." I hypothesize that so many bloggers over-apologize because they're afraid of losing followers. In their eyes, losing a follower means they've failed. And who wants to be a failure?

There's nothing wrong with explaining to readers why you skipped a few days of blogging, or why you chose not to do a challenge, or why you're dressed more casually than you normally do. But unwarranted over-apologizing positions us as subservient and hurts us. It can make us feel indebted to our readers and less powerful over what and how often we post. In addition, over-apologizing to your readers immediately puts their happiness at a higher level than yours. It creates a divide: the needs of your readers are 'right', and your own needs are 'wrong.' This leads you to you to feel remorseful for your perceived "inadequacies." The quality of our life depends directly on the choices we make and how we act upon them. Part of the process of building healthy self-esteem comes from making your needs a priority and not being apologetic about them.

When I started blogging, I didn't do so to attract a million readers (though I am THRILLED that you all are here.) I don't blog to be competitive, and I don't blog out of a feeling of obligation. I blog because I want to. This blog is, ultimately, for me - a place to write about topics that interest me, share my thoughts with the world, be part of a community of people with similar ideas, and have fun. It's my space, and it's up to me to set the rules. If I want to post every day, I do. But if I miss a day, so be it. I recognize that my real-life activities and relationships are far more important, and there's no reason for me to apologize for it. None of us should feel we must say sorry to our readers for having a life outside our blogs. There is absolutely nothing wrong with taking a day, or week, or month off. And, in that vein, there's nothing wrong with not participating in a challenge, or not having regular features, or not constantly updating your layout. It's your blog - do what you want, when you want.  Ultimately, your blog exists to make you happy. And that's what matters the most.

And now I ask you: Have you ever felt a need to apologize to your readers? Do you believe bloggers over-apologize out of a fear of losing followers, or is there something deeper going on? Have you ever struggled with apologizing too much? Do you believe you owe your readers an apology when you miss a day of blogging, or aren't participating in a challenge?

Thrifted vintage silk blouse; thrifted Armani skirt; thrifted vintage Coach satchel; Target belt; MIA clogs; Dolly Python leather cuff; World Market Catholic saints bracelet; Forever 21 pendant

Outfit Post: Cocktails in stores - yay or nay?

I have a little Wednesday night ritual. I change out of my clothes into an ancient pair of Anthropologie pajama pants and a Michael Stars tank, pour a double shot of Makers Mark whiskey, and cocoon into a fluffy throw blanket on the couch. Then I turn on the teevee, turn off the lights, and watch Modern Family, Cougar Town and In The Middle while cackling with delight. Then I'll flick to TBS and catch my super secret husband Timothy Olyphant on Justified.  Occasionally, when these shows are repeats, I bring my shot of whiskey over to my laptop and engage in a little online window shopping. By ten p.m I feel relaxed, slightly sedated, and ready for a good night's sleep.

I was never much of a drinker. In high school and college I avoided alcohol like the plague, and waited until my twenty-first birthday to have my first drink (yes, really.) I was exceedingly proud of my ability to abstain at parties while my friends got inebriated. I suppose I was afraid of losing control. And throwing up. But now that I'm older, and more mature, I enjoy a shot of whiskey every now and then. And there's something to be said for the simple pleasure of sipping on a beer while sitting on a restaurant patio during a warm spring night.

Last week, the NY Times ran an article about a new trend developing in New York City stores. A collection of independent men's boutiques have started serving alcohol to shoppers, often tying in the type of drink served to the apparel being sold. Traditional men's lifestyle brands have long offered customers a glass of scotch while being fitted for a suit, a rite of passage for men stepping up into the business world. “It feels like a social experience, very James Bond or 1960s Playboy, but I guess it’s also kind of like Vegas — the more you drink you more you spend,” said Joey Rubenstein, an Internet entrepreneur, as he waited for the clerk to bring out his Hugo Boss sport coat. 

In hip New York City neighborhoods, several men’s wear stores are now lubricating the shopping experience with everything from microbrews to specially made cocktails. While few stores advertise the perk, some shoppers are now stopping in to stores for a drink before continuing on with evening activities, with shopping as an afterthought. And often, the store employees drink with the customers. “We’re not trying to get them drunk, we’ll have one with them,” said Karim Manuel Fresno, general manager at Groupe Seize sur Vingt. “We’re not just selling the clothes, we’re selling the experience. We promote the lifestyle.” 

Reading this article got me thinking about how my shopping experience would change if I was offered a drink while browsing the racks. There's no doubt that sipping on a cocktail puts customers at ease. At high-end stores that cater to women, customers have long been served champagne to reinforce the note of luxury which high-end merchandise symbolizes. Being served a drink encourages customers to remain in the store for an extended period of time, increasing the likelihood that they'd make a purchase. I can certainly see how shopping while tipsy would lead to more money spent, and possible buyer's remorse when the buzz wears off. And bonding with a store employee over a cocktail might encourage a more intimate shopping experience. 

How do you feel about being served while shopping? Would in-store cocktails encourage you to visit, and make a purchase, at a store? Have you ever sipped on a drink while browsing? Or do you believe this trend is going a bit too far? 

Market Publique vintage blazer; Anthropologie ruffled top; Gap cami; Citizens of Humanity jeans; vintage Coach satchel; Mia clogs;  Forever 21 bracelet; Forever 21 rhinestone earrings

Outfit Post: My name is Elissa, and I am a changing room rageaholic

There are so many things that are great about shopping. Inhaling the sweet scent of leather in in the Fossil store? Great. Finding the perfect pair of wedges that make your feet simultaneously comfortable and stylish? Happy happy joy joy. Lounging at the MAC counter chatting with all the adorbz make-up artists in an attempt to figure out how on God's green earth one is supposed to wear Lady Gaga's lipstick which, I'm sorry, looks like foundation, and why would one make the CHOICE to slather foundation on their LIPS? That too is so, so great (if slightly mystifying. Apparently we are supposed to line our lips in magenta or fuchsia lip liner as an "interesting contrast." I have no desire to look like Krusty the Clown, so no thanx.)

There is one little itty bitty thing that I do not like about shopping. And that's trying things on. Just the thought of taking my clothes off makes me shake my tiny ineffectual fists into the air and shout WHY GOD, WHY????? I am not the most thoughtful person when planning a shopping excursion. I do not engage in sensible tactics like wearing dresses and other articles that are easily slip-off-able. No. I am the girl in a tank layered under a button-down which is layered under a cardigan that's layered over oppressively skinny jeans that are off course paired with tall boots and knee-high socks. I am that girl. Which, as a style blogger and fashion writer, is redonk.

I wear this suit of armor as a psychological tactic. See, I hate being nekkid, and I REALLY hate being nekkid in a dressing room. It's too small, and the lighting is horrid, and I am convinced trick funhouse mirrors are involved, and the door never seems to lock securely if there's a door at all, because sometimes there's just a filmy curtain separating me from the general public and I'm naked and what if some intrusive dressing room lady tries to come in and "help" and OM GOD BLOODTHIRSTY BARGAIN SHOPPING ZOMBIES COULD ATTACK ME AND HAVE I MENTIONED THAT I'M NAKED??? So I wear lots and lots of clothes as a way of psyching myself out of trying things on. See? I is a smart. Or not. Because inevitably when I get home and do try everything on I find that only 14% of what I purchased actually fits. Which means I have to go back to the store, and return stuff. /fail

So I was all together unsurprised when I learned from a survey that many women experience something called "changing room rage," wherein store fitting rooms leave them frustrated and cranky. You don't say.

Sky News reports that a survey found 48% of respondents felt frustration in fitting rooms, while 58% suffered disappointment. Half said they tried on clothes at home to avoid the problem, while 75% said they avoided trying them on at all. All of these are apparently symptoms of "changing room rage" or CRR, which can allegedly "lead to shoppers snapping at retail assistants, storming out of stores and even losing self-confidence."

It should be noted that this survey was conducted on behalf of isme.com, an online clothing company, so it seems obvious that they have a vested interest in attracting customers who do not like shopping in stores. And, call me crazy, but I don't see how it's possible that half the women tried clothes on at home, while three-quarters avoided trying on clothes AT ALL. That is the definition of a WTF, if you ask me. 

But still. Is it really that much of a shock that women hate dressing rooms? You wait in line for a long time to enter a tiny enclosed space with bad lighting, where you try on clothes that probably don't fit (either due to sizing inconsistency, or the narrow range of sizes many stores carry.) It's as if you have stepped into a dark netherworld dungeon where torture in the form of ill-fitting pants awaits you.

Personally, I found this survey kind of comforting, and a wave of solidarity washed over me after realizing I AM NOT ALONE. We rage-aholics really need to unite. Much like the suffragettes before us, we should be marching in picket lines, only this time demanding flattering lighting and comfy leather chairs for our friends to recline while we change and doors, doors that shut tightly and extend to the floor so no one can see our feet, and as long as we're asking for stuff a glass of chardonnay would be lovely too thanks for offering.

How do you feel about dressing rooms, and trying on before buying? Do you typically purchase things without trying them on first? Do you shop online as a way of avoiding stores and dressing rooms?

Forever 21 peasant blouse; Gap Outlet cargos; Mis Mooz wedges; thrifted vintage Coach satchel; Plato's Closet braided leather cuff; Dolly Python stamped leather cuff; World Market catholic saints bracelet; geode bracelet

Outfit Post: Beep beep, beep beep, yeah

A long, long time ago, I had this car.

I was one of the very few teenagers in this country who had absolutely no desire to learn to drive when I became of age. It just wasn't a big deal. I happily took the subway and bus to high school, and was perfectly content to leave any further transportation needs to my mom or boyfriend du jour.

High school graduation changed things, though. In order to commute from my mom's house to college, I needed to drive. Thankfully, a generous uncle paid for my driving lessons, and after I passed my road test his son offered me his 1980 Honda Prelude in return for driving it down from his university in Connecticut. I was grimly informed that the car didn't have working heat or air conditioning. To make matters worse, the windows rolled only halfway down and the radio refused to work at the mere hint of precipitation. Yet I was thrilled to get a car for free - any car. 

I still wasn't expecting was I saw when I arrived to pick it up.

My cousin, an alternative-music fan and musician, had spray-painted song lyrics over every single inch of that car. In red spray paint. And I should also mention that some of these lyrics contained profanity that would've made George Carlin blush. I was shocked, but secretly delighted. This was a car that would get attention, a car that I'd always be able to find in the mall parking lot, a car that made up in sass what it lacked in size.

And hey, it was free. I wasn't about to let a few choice words get between me and a much-needed mode of transportation. So my R-rated little car and I made our way down from New Haven to Long Island. During the four hours of highway driving I feared I was going to cause a collision at any moment. Children pointed and waved, elderly couples looked horrified, and I received quite a few thumbs-up from bikers on Harleys. Clearly this was a car to be reckoned with.

Unfortunately, my mother did not share their appreciation for my traveling art installation. Two days after arriving home my profane little car was painted back to its original color, a rather staid metallic silver. I'm not sure I would've had the nerve to drive it around as a moving billboard anyway.

What was your first car like? Were you excited to get your driver's license, or did it terrify you?

Thrifted J Crew blazer; thrifted silk J Crew blouse; thrifted Seven for All Mankind jeans; thrifted J Crew suede boots; Forever 21 necklace' thrifted Coach bag (all cleaned up!)

Outfit Post: Favorite lipstick, rest in peace

I need to ask for a moment of silence.






It appears that at some point during last weekend's Texas Style Council Conference, while tweeting and eating Tex-Mex and drinking and getting hit on by lonely hobo hipsters and singing karaoke and blogging, I lost my most favorite lipstick. I have done the things most of us do when realizing we've misplaced something: Freaked out, emptied my purses, tore apart my suitcase, had a panic attack, checked all my pockets, cleaned out my SUV, freaked out some more, and, eventually, stoically and tearfully accepted that the lipstick was gone (sniff sniff.)

The lipstick in question was MAC's Viva Glam. It was the perfect almost-red color - glossy, creamy, and not too bright. No matter what I was wearing, this lipstick made me feel gorgeous. (I should also add that this lipstick was my introduction into the wonderful world of MAC cosmetics, my obsession on which has become a bit of a Problem. I used a capital P, to emphasize the serious nature of this situation.) Viva Glam reminded me of my early childhood, when I'd perch on the corner of my bathroom sink and watch my mom apply her make-up. My mother was an intense hoarder of cosmetics. Eyeshadows spilled from Zip-Loc bags. Blushes were crammed into shoe boxes. Nail polishes, in a rainbow of colors, lined our medicine cabinet. Every morning my mom and I would crowd into our teeny tiny NYC apartment bathroom and I'd watch, enthralled, as she powdered and plucked and painted herself into an eighties glamazon. A final spritz of Dior's Poison capped off her opulent, somewhat embalmed look. I was smitten.

MAC's Viva Glam had a similar effect. It transformed me from a harried suburban mom into a chic gamine Aubrey Hepburn-type, the kind of woman who wears kitten heels and smokes unfiltered French cigarettes and drinks red wine at 1 pm while listening to Edith Pilaf records. This woman also has a collection of Hermes Birkin bags, drives a vintage Jaguar XKE convertible, and owns a flat in Buenos Aires. She and her sultry Latin boyfriend spend afternoons wandering through art galleries, eating tapas, and making love on an antique mahogany bed draped in filmy linen. They serve cocktails in vintage barware, vacation in Budapest, and spend their free time collecting feminist art with which to decorate their Moroccan-inspired, zebra-carpeted, Rococo chandelier-ed home.

I want to be this woman.

In my MAC Viva Glam, I believed I was one step closer. Without it I'm, well, me. Cheapskate, half-hearted cook, insomniac, thrifter, slow typist, and procrastinator of most household chores. And unfortunate object-loser. (Editor's Note: Yesterday I also lost my favorite ring. THANK GOD NOT MY ENGAGEMENT RING, or I'd have serious issues.) My life is about as scintillating as a shampoo commercial.

Do you have a favorite lipstick? Are you loyal to a certain brand? Care give a recommendation? Because I could certainly use a pick-me-up.

Here I am, sans awesomesauce lipstick and sultry Latin boyfriend.

Forever 21 linen shirt; Forever 21 floral top; Citizens of Humanity jeans; vintage thrifted Coach bag; Gap sandals; Forever 21 rhinestone bracelets; Forever 21 feather earrings

Outfit Post: Sentimental old sap or crazy crazy hoarder?

One of my favorite TV shows is Hoarders on A&E. If you've never seen it, you are missing out on one of the most fascinating sociological experiments of our time (aside from Jersey Shore, that is.) Hoarders documents the exploits of people who, for whatever reason, cannot throw things out. Whether it's a childhood stuffed animal collection, stacks of canned tomatoes, or rusting fetid beer cans, the items pile up to the point where they are literally eating the house. Though hoarding seemed to be the hot-button topic of 2010, it's hardly new. In 1947 Langley and Homer Collyer, two well-heeled New York City brothers, died after becoming trapped under 170 tons of debris. One suffocated after being crushed by a tower of baled newspapers. Clearly, these guys had issues.

I audibly cringe when watching Hoarders, mostly because I just cannot understand the thought process behind hoarding. I don't consider myself much of a sentimental person. I'm not one of those people who believes items have the magical ability to transport them back to the time of their origin. Back in high school, when my friends were saving the pens discarded by their crush and rereading notes passed between them from sixth grade, I was cleaning out my locker, gleefully tossing the previous week's notes. During cleaning spurts I am cold and ruthless when it comes to deciding what to keep and what to toss. If I don't need it, it goes. Period.

However, I will concede that there are a few things I will never, ever get rid of. And all of these items are clothes or accessories. Like the Santa outfits worn by my twins when they were newborns. Sure, they're covered in baby drool and smell a tiny bit like spit-up. Will they ever wear them again? No. Do they serve any purpose at all, aside from making my uterus weep? No. But...my boys wore them during their first Christmas photos. And they're awfully cute. The outfits I mean (though my boys are pretty darn cute too.) So they stay.

There's also my prom dress - a dress so horribly, spectacularly tragic that it makes me wonder if I suffered a mysterious head injury before purchasing it. It reminds me of a simpler time, a golden age when I sported a bad perm (which I sprayed into submission with Aussie Scrunch Spray) and did hard time in detention for talking in class (sadly, this happened a lot.) In addition, I've got a too-small leather bomber jacket I scored on eBay, ancient concert tee shirts, 107263 pairs of designer jeans, multiple pairs of black ballet flats, and a J Crew argyle sweater I purchased with money saved from babysitting. In high school. The dress I'm wearing today, picked up during a particularly fortuitous thrifting excursion back in 2006, is another one of my can't-let-go items too.

Many people create attachments to clothing for one reason or another. Over time, these clothes can take up too much space and create a cluttered closet. While I believe in sentimental value, there has to come a point where you have to differentiate the important things from the not-so-important stuff. There are certain things that I will never get rid of (see items above, though I could stand to pair down my denim collection.) And others, like those skinny aspirational-sized pants I hold onto to torture myself with, need to be donated immediately. The feeling of needing to keep everything is hard to get rid of. But the value of having less crap in your closet is priceless.

Do you have things in your closet you could never get rid of? How do you determine what to keep and what to donate/throw out?

Thrifted Loft denim shirt; thrifted Forever 21 dress; Anthropologie lace camisole; thrifted Coach belt; thrifted vintage Coach satchel; Frye boots; Target socks; Plato's Closet leather bracelet; Betsey Johnson gold watch

Things That Are Awesome: Flea markets

I am a simple woman. A shot of whiskey is my perfect drink. Take me to a used bookstore and I will be your best friend for life. I am perfectly content spending an afternoon on coffee shop patio reading my Kindle. And flea markets make me exorbitantly, unreasonably happy. As far as I'm concerned, there is nothing better than a day spent outdoors, wandering from booth to booth, never quite knowing what to expect.

My parents didn't have much money when I was growing up. Fortunately, my mother was a champion bargain shopper and a frequent visitor of flea markets near our home in Queens. On our trips together I'd closely study proper market behavior -  the art of haggling with vendors and hunting down bargains, and which stand sold the best frozen lemonade. At the flea we'd pick up things like handmade tie-dyed socks and scented candles bottled by bored housewives in their basements and knock-off purses and hippie jewelry woven out of hemp. I grew to love the uncertainty of it, the unpredictability of vendors and the ever-changing merchandise. Perhaps I would dig up a bargain on tights. Maybe I'd go home with a parakeet. If I was lucky, I might actually end up with something I needed, like tube socks and personalized pencils for math class. You just never knew.

However, Texas flea markets beat the New York markets of my youth to a bloody pulp. In addition to better food (Frito chili pie and hot boiled peanuts? Yes please) there's completely epic people-watching. There are grizzled old men in overalls selling firearms and "art" constructed from antlers and and whatever crap scrounged from their front yards. Women in housedresses push rolling carts past you, cigarettes hanging limply from their lips. It seems that everyone either sports a mullet, Civil War-era facial hair, or Nascar apparel. Or a combination of all three. The truly stylish wear Carhart jackets and camo pants. The supremely stylish are outfitted in Carhart camo and a Nascar tee. And don't even get me started on the accents flying through the air. I couldn't understand a damm thing anyone was saying.

Several booths do a brisk business selling fried apple pies, dusty Depression-era glasswear, studded tee shirts and bags emblazoned with crosses and zebra prints, and household items constructed from scrap metal. Here's a sample:

If you're ever in the Dallas area, definitely take the time to check out McKinney Third Monday Trade Days, Canton Third Monday Trade Days, or for the truly adventurous, Bonham First Monday Trade Days. Bonham's market offers things like chickens and goats and truck engine parts and grandma's musty afghans. It's really something to see.


For my flea market adventure, I went with a favorite pair of boyfriend jeans and a lightweight sweater. Compared to my comrades in camo and overalls, I was most definitely overdressed.

Are you a fan of flea markets? Any interesting ones in your area?

Gap stripped cotton sweater; Gap tee (under sweater), AG Adriano Goldschmied boyfriend jeans; Forever 21 shoes; thrifted Coach belt; Urban Outfitters flower studs

 

Quinceaneras, bat mitzvahs, and ruffles ruffles ruffles

This is embarrassing.

Today I dressed kind of like a goth adolescent preparing for her quinceanera. Not that I've ever been to one, but like I've seen on Wizards of Waverly Place and late-night programming on Telemundo.

I imagine a quinceanera is kind of like a Latin American Bat Mitzvah, minus the Hebrew and phlegmatic accents.  For those non-Jews reading, allow me to explain exactly what it is. A Bat Mitzvah is a rite of passage for a thirteen year-old girl. It's a ceremony symbolizing the passage into Jewish adulthood, requiring years of preparation (in the form of tediously long Hebrew lessons, the consumption of bland, downright bizarre foods (gefilte fish, kugel, and charoset come to mind) and painfully long family traditions. For months beforehand you attend Hebrew school, where you learn violent songs about Passover and practice warbling your Torah portion with an ancient rabbi. On the big Bat Mitzvah day, you climb up onto the synagogue stage and read your Hebrew portion while your parents beam proudly from the congregation. Then you give saccharine-sweet speeches of tearful thanks to your parents and siblings. After synagogue there's a huge reception, either at a catering hall or restaurant, which is decorated with towering balloon sculptures and centerpieces made from fresh flowers and curled ribbons and cartoonish cardboard cutouts.

I had an epic Bat Mitzvah. My mother rented out an entire restaurant and invited every relative in the Tri-State Area (and some strangers from California.) I wore a off-the-shoulder white lace dress with rhinestones and beads and more lace and satin ribbons and pantyhose and white satin pumps. There were ruffles. Many, many ruffles. It was 1986, so it was okay.

The hotness that was thirteen year-old me in my Bat Mitzvah dress, with an entourage of male suitors.

In my adolescent years I attended quite a few Bat Mitzvah's, which was a fairly common experience as a Jewish girl growing up on Long Island. A Bat Mitzvah was announced with invitations constructed from four (or more) layers of embossed cardstock and translucent paper and satin ribbons, and packaged in it's own keepsake box. Each layer of paper symbolized how much money your parents were willing to flush down the toilet for your special special day. Invitations were no joke. Parents scrutinized them like Cold War spies deciphering code intercepted by intelligence agencies.

The typical Bat Mitzvah reception featured thirteen year-old's swaying to loud music (preferably from a band and not, God forbid, a DJ, because ohmygawd a band is like so much classier, you don't even want to know what the neighbors will think if we have a DJ, people will talk), and a Kosher buffet, and elaborately themed centerpieces (usually CANDYLAND!, or ON BROADWAY! or ADVENTURES AROUND THE WORLD!) and distant cousins shoving envelopes stuffed with money in your face. In my days, Bat Mitzvahs also included glow sticks and custom-made tee shirts with the date and location of the event, just in case you forgot where you slow danced for the first time and nearly got kissed right before your Grandma Helen interrupted looking for the ladies room.

As I looked at myself in today's outfit, with it's ruffled beaded sequined tunic, I immediately remembered my bat Mitzvah dress, resplendent in it's ruffled glory. I'll admit that I'm uncertain if this outfit is really me (and the tunic made me photograph lumpier than I actually am....and even after three kids, I'm in pretty decent shape) but I felt like trying something new. What do you think? Does it work or not? Is there something you'd change?

Forever 21 tunic; Gap Outlet jeggings; thrifted Justin boots; Coach bag; Forever 21 bracelets; Betsey Johnson gold watch; target rhinestone pyramid studs

 

Catalogs: Living the dream

Vintage cars draped in Pendleton blankets. Sandy beaches with hammocks swaying in the breeze. A quick flip through a catalog encourages daydreams of living in these fantasy worlds. I squeal with glee at the the sight of a freshly printed catalog in my mailbox. I love them - the way sweaters and tees are stacked enticingly by color; the creative names for colors (beige becomes "beechwood;") the perfectly styled models gazing thoughtfully into the distance. I am not the only one in love with catalogs: James Stegall once wrote a sad missive to the ladies of Lands End. Each catalog has it's own distinctive style, marketed to a specific customer.

Victoria's Secret: Your apartment is so warm you don't need clothes, and every room includes a plush chaise lounge for napping and sexy time. Despite a closet overfilling with silk chemises and cotton boy-shorts, you choose to wear a boned periwinkle corset that is slightly too small for your heaving bosom. You like the feel of sand on your ass. I mean REALLY like it. Also, you have no nipples.

Williams-Sonoma: There is nothing you will not infuse in olive oil.

L.L. Bean: You live just outside of somewhere named Portland (Oregon, Maine, whatever.) You love wearing high-performance outerwear on your day hikes with your golden retriever. In the evenings, you curl up with the New York Times on your enormous red couch, wearing slippers made of boiled wool.

Urban Outfitters: You go to rock shows in your romper. Your apartment is full of sarcastic coffee table books and repurposed window frames , but you don't care because you are always a little drunk, and you look beautiful all the time even though you never wash your hair. Your boyfriend's t-shirt has a Midwestern state on it, and yours has a bird turning into a roller skate, and sometimes you trade and nobody notices.

Brooks Brothers: You are rich, Republican and possibly a little bit evil.
 
Anthropologie: You have a collection of first-edition Jane Austin novels. Your job involves traveling to Prague and being pensive in rooms. You have a wrought-iron bed. You know how to applique. You buy your art from Etsy. You own a cedar chest filled with heirloom lace. You wear a plumed fascinator constructed of netting and Victoria daydreams to dinner, and no one notices.

J Crew: Your luggage has been lost on your way to East Hampton or Côte d'Azur or wherever you are vacationing that weekend. You are left with only the contents of your carry-on bag: a few silk chemises, a bathing suit, 5 necklaces, a pashmina, two skirts, a cardigan, a pair of socks. In an attempt to make the best of the situation, you wear everything at once and belt it together. It inexplicably looks amazing. Also, you have lots and lots of money. 

Here is my mostly-cataloged outfit from today. I would fit in perfectly in Anthropologie's romantic, muted world, where models gaze wistfully from frosted glass windows and jewelry is glistening dewdrops of wonder. And I thought this blazer would be perfect for the latest challenge on Everybody, Everywhere.

Juicy Couture velveteen blazer; Velvet ruffled top, Anthropologie rufled denim skirt; Anthropologie tights; vintage thrifted boots; vintage thrifted Coach satchel.

Californication: A bit of Rachel Zoe

I have an unfortunate obsession with Rachel Zoe. A high-profile Hollywood stylist, Zoe is credited with reintroducing the world to seventies influenced fashion. Her signature style can be defined as boho-chic, a term that came to be when, in 2003, Nicole Richie went to Zoe for help in 2003 for help and was photographed in oversized jewelry, flowing blouses, gigantic sunglasses and platform heels. Other celebrities took notice, and Zoe became a household name.

A doe-eyed, darkly tanned, pin-thin creature, Rachel Zoe is often seen wafting through racks of vintage Missoni with celebrity friends on her hit Bravo reality show. She teeters on gravity-defying heels, travels with 20 assistants, and air-kisses the likes of Kate Hudson, Karl Lagerfeld, and Jennifer Gardner. I imagine she smells like a combination of Starbucks non-fat lattes, the ocean, suede, and gardenias. Her masses of jewelry and outsized sunglasses add up to a theatrical, exaggerated, ostentatious sense of glamor, and at times she resembles a dizzying character from a madcap musical. 

Perhaps that's what I love most about her. Zoe is the perfect example of a more-is-more approach. In her world, there is no such thing as too much costume jewelry, too many artfully-placed highlights, too dark of a tan, too many feathers, too high heels or too much fur. She changes her sunglasses depending on the light, has professed a hatred towards condensation (in a NY Times interview - seriously, look it up) and her Blackberry ring tone is "Riders of the Storm" by the Doors. She spends an afternoon at home with her husband attired in a white cashmere bathrobe, high-heeled espadrilles and full photo-ready hair and make-up. She is a grand gesture. Indeed, she is the complete and total opposite of me.

I adore how deeply Rachel Zoe embraces Californian style and culture. From her accent to her laid-back glamorous style, she exemplifies the Malibu bohemian who eats organically, drives a massive hybrid SUV and has her facialist on speed dial. She's someone I'd love to grab an iced green tea with and gossip about vintage stores, where to get the best manicure, and the benefits of cleansing oils. I wouldn't want to work with her, though - listening to her utter "I die" and "Ba-nanas" repeatedly might induce me to shank her with a rusty blade.

Yesterday I was tempted to pull out all the stops and dress a la Rachel Zoe, complete with platforms, chunky gold watch, sequined beret and fur vest. Alas, I am not in possession of any of those items. I recently acquired a vintage oversized blazer I am certain Rachel would approve of, so that had to do.

Vintage thrifted Christian Dior blazer; Anthropologie burgundy tunic dress, Gap turtleneck; American Apparel leggings; Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 bag; Juicy Couture class ring necklace; Forever 21 chain necklace; ancient gold huggie earrings; Coach ballet flats

Snow chickens and cardigans

Ah, winter. Season of frozen fingertips, meager daylight hours, and lost gloves. I am not a fan of Old Man Winter. The arrival of cold weather typically zaps my energy until I discover a hidden stash of Halloween candy in the back of the pantry, which I chew through and immediately feel disgusting. Then I try to decide whether I want to clean out my closet, or mop, or dust the whole house (all at the same time) or reorganize the pantry, or catch up on TV episodes I recorded six months ago. Orrrr...hibernate like a furry woodland creature.

There's a lot to be said about mid-winter days. It's undeniably fun to be cozy, and to snuggle deep into down throws, and to drink hot toddies, and break out all those clothes like Uggs and woolly scarves and coats. That is truly the highlight of the season, as far as I'm concerned. Dragging out your favorite boots + sweaters from last year is super fun, although I always image that they are understandably bitter after being put out of sight during the hot summer months, tucked silently into the dark reaches of your closet with only a missing glove and frayed scarf to keep them company. I suspect my winter clothes are especially irritable because they know that deep down I resent them, a little, because they represent the endless blustery Iowa winters.

Aside from releasing the warm clothes from storage, the really good thing about winter is crouching near a blazing fire listening to the wind blow and knowing I don't have to be out in it. My Dallas suburb was blanketed by five inches of snow on Sunday, and I found great pleasure in watching my kids construct a rather impressive snow chicken (no snowmen for our family! We're wacky like that) while I huddled inside. The snow did give me the opportunity to break out my favorite super warm cardigan, an activity that provided a much needed boost to my mood.

Gap cardigan, Michael Stars long-sleeved tee; Gap Outlet jeggings; Michael Kors boots; Nordstrom necklace; vintage Coach satchel; Forever 21 belt; ancient gold huggie earrings.