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.

I wore a velveteeen blazer. I describe a bitter internal debate. That is all.

True confession time: I have not always been a fan of the blazer. Blazers always felt so... complicated. For one, they seemed too tailored for my stressful day job of doing laundry, wiping up my twins' fourteen millionth apple juice spill, and creating flying vehicles out of Legos. I couldn't imagine wearing a blazer to the playground, or throwing one on with my leggings for a trip to the supermarket. I also blame my strained relationship with blazers on too many viewings of the movie Working Girl. Over time, I've begun to associate blazers with linebacker shoulder pads, teased hair, and white sneakers with pantyhose. Let's face it - I was never going to be a New Jersey secretary desperately angling to be a high-powered executive while bedding Harrison Ford, so clearly blazers were not for me.

A couple of years ago, I was killing time before preschool pick-up when I found myself browsing in TJ Maxx. I was thumbing through racks of sweaters when my fingers brushed against the softest, thickest velveteen. Allow me to describe the point-by-point conversation I had with myself following this discovery:

Oooh. What have we here? Is that velveteen???
*squeal!* Yes! A Juicy Couture velveteen blazer!
Hello lover. Come to mama.

But it's a blazer.

You fear blazers.

But it's so pretty! And soft! And has delicate antique lace detailing at the cuffs!

Hello, it's a blazer. A blazer.
*eyeroll*

Where will you wear it? You just spent an hour scraping dried bananas off the floor.
Honey, you are just not the blazer type. 
And that color. Seriously, you won't know what to do with it.
But...it looks like something that came from Anthropologie! (which, let's face it, is the predominant criteria I use when deciding on a purchase.)
AND it's $250 off full price. 
AND you should know that if I do not buy this blazer some unsavory girl will walk away with it and I WILL DIE. And WHEN I DIE my husband will coldly bag up all my clothes and dump them at the Goodwill and I JUST CAN'T LIVE WITH THAT, IT'S NOT RIGHT. 
*uncomfortable silence*
I'll figure out how to wear it. I know I will.
Well, fine. Go ahead and buy it. Don't say I didn't warn you. *stomps off in a huff*

Buy it I did. I proudly took it home, hung it on a padded hanger...and didn't wear it until today. That damm blazer cursed me in the store. The color proved to be troublesome, and it's blazer-ness intimidated me. But thanks to my helpful, inspirational list of blogs, I've learned not to be afraid of structured pieces. Blazers don't need to be stiff and pointy-shouldered and accessorized with teased bangs and pantyhose and New Jersey accents. They can be soft, and worn almost anywhere, with nearly anything in my closet.


In conclusion, I feel pretty great in my blazer today. Even while fighting urges to chain smoke and kick Sigourney Weaver's ass, that is. 

Juicy Couture blazer; Citizens of Humanity jeans; thrifted Gap floral button-down; Gap white tee; Gap belt; J Crew booties

 

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

The most relevant survey EVER, or How many pairs of jeans do you have?

According to a Consumer Reports/ShopSmart survey, the average woman owns seven pairs of jeans, but only wears four. The Shopsmart study went on to conclude that only one in 10 women is willing to spend more than $100 on a pair of jeans, while the average price they pay hovers at $34. Younger women in the 18-34 demographic hold a slightly higher average at $60 a pair, the poll noted.

Hmmm.

After reading this article, the first thing I did was run to my closet and count my jeans. I have a collection I always considered average for women in my age bracket and neighborhood: 20 pairs of jeans, and five pairs of capris. Plus two pairs of denim shorts and two denim skirts (if we're including all denim items.) A few years ago, I had close to 75 pairs of jeans (which is really gross), but I've managed to scale down my collection quite a bit and limit what hangs in my closet to things I actually wear.

Of my 20 pairs, I wear the following 9 most regularly: My Seven for All Mankind bootcuts, Joe's Jeans jeggings, slightly ripped Paige bootcuts, a destroyed pair of AG Adriana Goldschmied boyfriend jeans, Citizens of Humanity flare-legs, Gap black and gray jeggings, and a super dark wash pair of  J Brand jeans. I buy pretty much all of my jeans from Ebay or Plato's Closet, or from The Gap Outlet, which keeps the expense down. I'd guess the average cost per pair is around $50. I have spent more than $100 on denim, but those days are long behind me.

Why do I continue to hold on to the jeans that aren't in regular rotation? Two reasons. One, They're too expensive to justify tossing, and remain in a to be sold eventually 0n eBay section in my closet  Reason number two: They're too-small, "aspirational" sizes, purchased during times when I was thinner. I hold onto these jeans with the hope that someday I'll fit into them again.

I realize that nobody NEEDS more than one pair of jeans (and if you own a pair of khakis or a skirt, you don't even need that). You don't NEED cute throw pillows or bottled water or a DVD player or a coat just for special occasions or makeup or any other of the gazillion things women might own. I don't NEED the twenty pairs of jeans I have, though I do wear more than the 9 pairs I mentioned.

I have a complex where I think I never have enough jeans. I love designer denim especially - they do magical things to my butt and elongate my legs, and  can easily be dressed up or down depending on the situation. I think my denim obsession stems at least partially from middle school, where I had only 1 pair of truly lame jeans. I hated those jeans. They were high-waisted and pinched my stomach. Every night, before I went to sleep, I prayed over the first star I saw that God would bless me with a pair of Guess jeans. I lusted over that cute little triangle on the back pocket. I even would've settled for acid wash, if that was all that was offered. We lived on a tight budget and could not afford the $40 Guess jeans cost. And by the time I managed to scrounge up enough cash from babysitting, Guess jeans were out.

In college, due to lack of money and a desire to avoid the sorority prep-girl look so prevalent on my campus, I became obsessed with tracking down the perfect pair of vintage button-fly Levis. Ideally, they were faded, torn at the knees, super soft, and worn down to a pale, pale blue. When I finally found the jeans I wanted it felt like a gift from heaven. My favorite pair had big tears in the knees, and in the winter I'd accessorize them with purple or blue fishnet tights underneath. I thought I was the bomb. Thank God there are no photos of me in that look.

J Crew turtleneck sweater; AG Adriana Goldschmied Ex-Boyfriend crop in 17 years Damaged Wash; Coach belt; Juicy Couture ballet flats; Betsey Johnson pyramid studs

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My fashion f-it list

I always tend to engage in deep self-examination during the beginning of the year. In 2010 I accomplished more in terms of identity development and personal "work" than I ever thought possible. I feel stronger, and more self-confident. I fulfilled goals I never thought I would. If my life-spanning bucket list contained categories for personal development, I feel fairly confident crossing them off.

Oddly enough, in a reversal of the now increasingly common bucket list formula, one blogger has created "Things I would like to do, that I probably could do, but never will do." An f-it list, if you will. Because sometimes it's nice to say never.

Jill of Feministe's anti-bucket list includes such items as "be an urban bee-keeper" and "make my own ricotta." As Katy points out, many of these seem inspired by the "new domestic goddess/locovore/food blogger phenomenon" which can make one feel inadequate. So while one can admire these feats, sometimes it's a relief to just throw up your hands and say you'll never raise your own chickens.

It's actually a little hard for me to say "never". But there are a few things I'd be fine with not doing in my life. Into this category fall baking pies (it looks hard, and I think I'm just going to keep buying them); driving stick (these are on the way out, right?); and meditating (for me it always feels like scheduled worrying). I will also never swim with sharks and sting rays, and
never do anything EXTREME! like you see in Mountain Dew commercials such as jumping out of an airplane or mountain-climb or white water river rafting. Because I'm a chicken,

So, here's my fashion related f-it list. Feel free to judge away.

I will never:
- Get a Brazilian wax
- Own/wear sweatpants or booty shorts that 'say' anything across the butt (you know, like 'Juicy', 'hottie', or 'Pink'). My ass does not need a voice, but if it had one, the vocabulary would be much more impressive.
-  Stop wearing my Uggs (I don't care, they're comfy).
- Wear lingerie as outerwear. I'll save that for my husband, thankyouverymuch.
- I will never wear the suburban Mommy uniform of khaki capri pants with a floral empire-waist top and faux leather sandals or boots. Last year I attended every one of my kids's parent-teacher conferences, concerts, plays and art shows. Every time I was the only mom there not in this uniform. It was like being in some sort of Laura Ashley nightmare. They all looked at me funny. I've been a stay-at-home mom for over ten years and have never felt like I'm dressed properly for the job.
- Wear jeans so low that the straps of my g-string hang out. Ewww.
- Stop wearing skirt and dresses again.

 What's on your fashion f-it list?

Old Navy cardigan; thrifted Gap button-down; Old Navy skirt; Hue tights; Hue tights; Frye cowboy books; Target belt; Juicy Couture school ring necklace; Anthropologie flower studs.



School days, school days; Dear old golden rule days

I spent most of high school years flat broke. On an average day, the only things in my wallet were old ticket stubs, my bus pass, and lint. My free time was spent commuting back and forth from school in Manhattan and my parent's apartment out in the wilds of Queens, leaving little to no opportunity for an after-school job. I did a lot of babysitting, though, which provided money for my morning bagel and coffee, but that was about it.

Thankfully, thrift stores in the city provided a rich plethora for cheap wardrobe opportunities. One of these stores was called Antique Boutique. The store was essentially a slightly more upscale version of Goodwill. Located on East 59th Street, next to Betsey Johnson's flagship store, Antique Boutique sold used button-fly Levi's, flannel shirts, bomber jackets, 1950's beaded cardigans and ancient concert tees. After Saturday's orchestra rehearsal I'll rush to the store with my hoarded money to load up on clothes. I spent hours digging through the racks. Unearthing the perfect pair of jean sent me into a tizzy. I'd return home clutching my bounty, eager to wear my latest find as soon as humanely possible.

On a wintry day during my senior year, I excavated what remains as my all-time favorite piece of clothing - a vintage knee-length, green plaid, Catholic schoolgirl skirt. I do not have the words to express my love for this skirt. It featured all-around pleats, a bright cheery plaid, and fit like a dream. I paired the skirt with button-downs, turtleneck sweaters, cardigans, leggings and knee socks, and my green Doc Martens (hey, it was 1992.) I lived in this skirt. I'm sure I would have felt differently if I'd been forced to attend Catholic school and wear an article of clothing similar to this as my everyday uniform. It was a novelty to me, and I loved it.

Alas, I eventually grew out of this skirt. I donated it to the Salvation Army, and attempted to recover from my loss. It was not easy. If there has been a support group for those traumatized by clothing loss, I would have been a charter member. So imagine my delight when I found almost the exact same skirt, albeit without the pleats, at Old Navy this fall. Like the original, it makes me feel young and flirty and charming. I'm certain it'll get a lot of wear in the years to come.

Old Navy cardigan, button-down, and skirt; Hue tights; Frye boots; Juicy Couture necklace; Betsey Johnson pyramid studs

Military service: Taking on cargo

If you read fashion blogs, celebrity websites, fashion or gossip magazines, or are an avid shopper like myself then you'll remember that this summer and fall ushered the return of the cargo pant. Largely responsible for initiating this trend was J Brand's Houlihan cargo. Made from a super-soft Japanese twill, this pant featured a slimmer cut leg than the traditional cargo, removing much of the bulk typically associated with this style. A low waist, aggressive moto stitching and long zippers at the ankles completed the look. The military pants were aptly named, too - after Hot Lips Houlihan of the movie and television series “M*A*S*H.”

I first learned of these cargos in May through DenimBlog.com. The  blog's author raved about the fit, calling them "pretty and feminine", with a "surprisingly flattering" fit on the butt. In the weeks that followed the popularity of these pants exploded. In a matter of a month they were sold out at Bloomingdales, Bergdorf's and Barneys New York. Celebrities adopted them as a uniform - Beyonce caught a flight in them, Rachel Bilson fetched coffee in them, Kate Bosworth wore them to walk her dog, and Gwen Stefani dressed in them to cavort with her son at the playground. These pants were everywhere. Other premium denim companies reinvented them in denim, cotton, and even leather. Hell, even the NY Times did a feature on them in their style section.

Hmmm, I thought. Maybe I should scoop up a pair of these cargos myself. I'm always looking for an alternative to my beloved jeans, and they seemed like the ideal replacement. Then I saw the price tag: $230. Bargain shopper that I am, there is no way I'd consider spending that much on a pair of freaking pants. I don't care who wore them. Unless they could make me dinner and dispense cash like an ATM, these cargos were a personal don't.

Flash forward to October. I was waltzing through The Gap outlet near my home when I saw a rack of cargos that looked suspiciously like Houlihans - same cut, same wash, even the same long zippers at the ankles. At 1/3 the price they enticed me even further. I tried them on at the store, decided I needed them, and brought them home.

Here's my review: They are very low-waisted. If I was wearing them in the summer with a tank or tee, they'd practically require a bikini wax. I'm not the biggest fan of exaggerated low-waisted pants. Such a cut can be very flattering for petite women, because they elongate the torso. However, I hate feeling like I have to tug on my clothes to keep them on, and that's the effect these pants had on me. Furthermore, they stretched out a bit more than I expected, resulting in the dreaded baggy butt. It's possible I bought a size too large, though.

They also created a bit of a shoe conundrum. There's no doubt that these are pants best worn with a heel. However, they seem too casual to be paired with a stiletto or pump. I went with flats, and they look kind of sloppy to me.

J Crew denim jacket; Forever 21 sweatshirt; thrifted Gap buttondown; Gap Outlet cargos; Juicy Couture ballet flats

Despite my smile, I am not happy with this outfit. I had to go through a lot of pics to find these three. I've decided to bring these pants back to the store and exchange them for a smaller size. Hopefully, that'll do the trick.