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: Will wearing designer labels make you rich and influential?

When I was in my very early twenties, I went through a phase where I became obsessed by designer labels. If it was recognizable, I wanted it. I scoured the internet for designer jeans; stalked logo-ed bags in department stores; and went to bed praying for a lottery win so I could afford the trendiest item from some expensive label. Rather than focusing on fit and whether the item was truly "me," I was much more concerned by who made it and what logo it displayed.

Perhaps not coincidentally, my label whore years coincided with a relocation to a high-income suburb, the birth of my daughter, and the changing role within my marriage. With the adoption of my new identity as a mother, I searched for legitimacy among the women I met in baby music classes and mom support groups. And the easiest way for me to do so was by wearing what I considered the "right" brands. On some level, I believed that if they saw the designer logo on my handbag, they'd be impressed. This would spark their interest and secure me an invitation into their social circle. And, sadly, it did.

It came as no shock to me when I learned of a new study on The Economist illustrating just how powerful a designer label is on social acceptance. Rob Nelissen and Marijn Meijers of Tilburg University in the Netherlands examined people’s reactions to volunteers who wore clothes made by recognizable designers. In the first experiment, volunteers were shown pictures of a man wearing a polo shirt. The photo was digitally altered to include no logo, a designer logo (Lacoste or Hilfiger) or a logo generally regarded as non-luxury, Slazenger. When the designer logo appeared, the man in the picture was rated as of higher status (3.5 for Lacoste and 3.47 for Hilfiger, on a five-point scale, compared with 2.91 for no logo and 2.84 for Slazenger), and wealthier (3.4 and 3.94 versus 2.78 and 2.8, respectively).

To examine if this perception had an effect on actual behavior, researchers performed a number of other experiments. For instance, one female volunteer asked people in a shopping mall to stop and answer survey questions. One day she wore a sweater with a designer logo; the next, an identical sweater with no logo. Some 52% of people agreed to take the survey when faced with the Tommy Hilfiger label, compared with only 13% who saw no logo.

In another experiment, volunteers watched one of two videos of the same man being interviewed for a job. In one, his shirt had a logo; in the other, it did not. The logo led observers to rate the man as more suitable for the job, and even earned him a 9% higher salary recommendation.

According to Gawker, researchers found that logos act as a "status-boosting talisman." Those wearing logos were judged to be wealthier, more powerful, more intelligent, and more capable. The Economist reported that this effect can be attributed to the fact that designer labels are seen as symbols of quality, meaning only the best can pay for them. However, some might take this study as proof of how the fashion industry has turned us into a society of Pavlovian shoppers, drooling over logo bags and high-profile designers. We have become culturally wired to love logos, and have assigned an iconic quality to expensive things, treating them with a level of respect and power. This explains the billion dollar counterfeit industry that churns out knockoff handbags, jewelry, and even shoes. Knockoffs are used to gain the same illusion of power and wealth as the original. A fake LV bag might be made from faux leather in China, but it's message is the same as the genuine article.

I've largely abandoned my designer wardrobe in favor of vintage and thrifted pieces, though I'll forever be a fan of designer denim - it seems to hold up better, and I believe has a more flattering fit than less-expensive brands. And it's true that, in most cases, luxury and designer clothing is better made and longer-lasting than less-expensive pieces - I only have to compare Ralph Lauren polo to those I purchased from Old Navy as proof. But largely, what I wear has much more to do with whether it's an expression of who I am than who it is made by.

So what do you think of this survey? Have you ever purchased clothing and accessories from high-end designers to fit in and impress? Do you believe wearing logos makes you more influential? Do you think the fashion industry has brainwashed us into craving logos over quality and fit? Are we as shallow and easily manipulated as this study suggests?

Vintage thrifted J Crew denim shirt; Nordstrom Rack dress; Frye boots; thrifted Coach belt; American Apparel tights; Plato's Closet leather bracelet; World Market Catholic saints bracelet

Outfit Post: My first kiss went a little like this...

Today I am wearing shorts with tights and boots. The last time I sported this look was in 1988. I had a really unfortunate perm and spent hours making mix tapes (y'all know what a cassette is, right? It's a demonic device that get tangled and twisted and eventually knotted into one gigantic mess that leaves you swearing and defeated.) I had also just received my first kiss, and drew the following conclusions about kissing and life in general:

1. Kissing is disgusting. 
2. Kissing is gross. 
3. Kissing is overrated.
4. I will never kiss anyone ever again. 
5. Ever.

These sentiments were not exactly those I expected to have after fourteen years of watching the birthday-cake-sitting-on-the-kitchen-table kissing scene in Sixteen Candles, and the dropping-the-purse-in-the-rain-in-the-parking-lot-after-prom kissing scene in Pretty in Pink.

I met First Kiss during a spring break jaunt with my family to a friend's farm in Upstate NY. He was a sixteen year old country boy with sandy blond hair that fell into his eyes in a sexy, pre-Justin Bieber sort of way. For a week we swam together in the lake, went out for ice cream, and talked around the fire late into the evenings. On my last day of my trip he led me into a barn, through dusty horse stalls and towards a dark corner. I knew in my head that he was going to kiss me that day. He knew I had never been kissed, and that I wanted my first kiss to be with him. Plus, I was fourteen and scared that if I didn’t kiss someone (him) soon I would surely die an old maid.

He leaned across and took me by surprise. Instead of the lustful, drawn-out, passionate staring into one another's eyes I expected before our mouths met, I felt a forceful smash of the lips to the face and a tongue halfway down my throat (or so it felt.) It was too wet, too slimy, too aggressive.There was no romance. No passion. I felt disgusted and duped, but I also knew that wasn't how it was supposed to feel. Unfortunately, that kiss did repel me from kissing for quite awhile. I seriously thought that I could never enjoy it. Ever.

Thankfully, I dated a lot of boys after First Kiss, and I eventually learned that as intimate as a kiss is, it's even better when it's with someone who really knows what they're doing. One should not need a shower after being kissed. The lips should not feel bruised. And if the sensation of being choked is present, run like hell. Sure, there's a time for full blown, against the wall, hands on the face, unrestrained passionate kissing accompanied by the frantic removal of clothing. But then again, a sweet brushing of the lips, simple in its intent, is just as delicious.

I was thinking of First Kiss when I got dressed this morning. Surely he'd approve of my tights under shorts styling. Despite the fact that it's been years since I pulled off this look, I think I did pretty well.


What was your first kiss like? Did it intrigue you, or repel you? Do you think bad kissing is a relationship deal-breaker? And how do you feel about the denim shorts with tights revival?

Gap windowpane blouse; Gap Outlet tee (under blouse); Gap denim shorts) Gap Outlet belt; target tights; thrifted J Crew boots; Gap crossbody belt; Plato's Closet leather belt

Outfit Post: Tiptoe through the tulips

It has recently come to my attention that this blog has veered away from it's original intent. See, when I began blogging, I thought my posts would be based around daily outfits and include no further content. There'd be outfit pics, details concerning said outfit pics, and a few cutesy quirky sentences full of puns and humor and double ententes for entertainment. You know, just to break things up a little. However, after a few days of those type of posts, I tumbled down the rabbit hole and the real me spilled out.

The real me likes to talk. A lot. The real me also enjoys ranting. Blessedly, the two are easily combined into one snarky, sarcastic entity here on this blog. I have ranted against rompers, sleezy Valentine's Day lingerie, the weather, being sick, hoarding, working out, fake bags, people who wear pajamas in public, fashion-related ridiculous, and flash-sale sites. To be honest, exaggerated, unadulterated hatred expressed through blog rants is an exhilarating and liberating activity. Writing is a therapeutic outlet for frustration. And damm if there aren't a lot of things that frustrate the heck out of me.

But I'll admit that truly, deep down, I am a lover.

I love all sorts of things, and I love LOTS of stuff. I love dive bars, brunch, Modern Family, Morrissey, whiskey, the sounds of my kid's laughing, thrifting, New York City, Twitter, cowboy boots, new books, that epic moment when a song on the radio ends just as you're pulling into your destination, Greg Laswell, road trips, manicures, getting a package in the mail, singing the national anthem at a baseball game, spring, fishing, disaster movies, Fage yogurt, seeing a dog chasing it's own tail, vintage pickup trucks, old men who wear overalls, red wine, and even a certain handful of special people. (You know who you are. All of you. Duh.)

For today, let's put the ranting to the side and focus on a thing I really love - the Dallas Arboretum.

The Dallas Arboretum makes me happy, in a little girl squealy sort of way. Being outdoors, walking through the trails of the Arboretum, with fields and trees and flowers on one side of me and White Rock lake on the other, satisfies something deep in my soul. I believe it's the best place to be in Dallas on a pretty day. Go ahead, try to come up with another one.  Well, a restaurant patio complete with ice cold beer, good friends and basket of fried pickles comes close. But the Arboretum still wins.

Every year in March the Arboretum hosts an event called Dallas Blooms. Thousands of spring flowers are on display in an almost overwhelming burst of color. On a warm early afternoon it seems like the entire city fills the Arboretum, taking photos and picnicking and posing their tiny adorable children in their pretty pastel Easter dresses in the middle of a flower field. School buses drop off children for field trips, and carloads of senior citizens arrive in white sneakers and sandals with socks. 

Tulips, azaleas, hyacinth, poppies, and daffodils made for the perfect backdrop for outfit pics taken by completely random strangers. Thank you, random strangers, for allowing me to pretend I am zee world famous model. I appreciate it.

Thrifted Fossil dress; Old Navy tights; thrifted boots; Plato's Closet leather bracelet

What are some things that you love? What random things make you squeally happy?

Oufit Post: In which I rant against rompers

* I begin with a disclaimer. A list of things I DO NOT HATE. Pay attention because it's important for you to know that although I DO HATE some things, I am not a HATER. I do not drink of the haterade, as it were.

I DO NOT HATE:

• People who wear rompers.
• People who manufacture rompers.
• People who sell rompers.
• People who buy rompers.
• People who model rompers.
• People who design rompers.
• People who vehemently disagree.
• People who won't even bother to read this.

Got it? Okay, good, so let's begin.

I hate rompers. I hate rompers because: 

• They don't fit me. Truth be told, most rompers are designed for tall thin girls who smoke gauloises cigarettes and drink vokda tonics and somehow manage to look gorgeously glamorous without washing their hair for 10 days. Such as my friend Erin, who bought a denim romper in Austin and looks amaze-balls in it.  For short women with inner thighs and non-concave stomachs, such as myself, rompers are extremely difficult to pull off. Last summer I wasted countless hours trying in vain to find a romper that was both flattering and and didn't remind me of toddler wear. This was an epic fail. At some point I had to pause to ask myself "WHY, Elissa, are you continuing on such a pointless, torturous, emotional quest?" So I stopped. And my world became bucolic again.

• They are not comfortable. I know there are many women out there who will argue this point. "But it's one piece and so comfy!" they'll squeal. In my experience, the crotch-to-neck ratio of a romper is designed for someone with no torso. And let's not even talk about the camel-toe, because I'm too much of a lady to go there. AND, you're probably wondering why I'm so educated with the fit of rompers. Well, at one point, I actually did own one. Every time I slipped it on I wondered how such a seemingly innocent article of clothing managed to fit beautifully at the waist and arms but pulled at my neck and, uh, ladybits and made me feel like I was being STRANGLED AND OH MY GOD GET THIS THING OFF OF ME. And then there's the issue of wedgies. I rest my case.

• Dresses/skirts/pants/shorts/capris (well, that one's debatable) are infinitely more flattering than a romper. I luuuuve to wear a dress. I look better in a skirt. I feel feminine and comfortable (and do not have to spend a minute worrying about crotch issues.) My husband agrees, but that doesn't really matter because what I wear is a big part of how I express myself and how I take care of myself. If I wore a romper two days a week, I'd be spending two days a week not doing what makes me happy or what makes me feel good. In a world of bills and stress and devastating earthquakes and tsunamis why not do something that makes you happy?

Now, I ask you: Is there an article of clothing that you just don't get? Are you a fan of rompers? Am I being redonkulous?

Thrifted Junk Food Lynard Skynard tee; thrifted Paige jeans; Target belt; Gap sandals; Urban Outfitters necklace; Plato's Closet leather bracelet; eBay gold and turquoise bracelet; World Market Catholic saints bracelet; Marc Jacobs watch; Fossil turquoise 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

If I were a rich girl, na-na-na-na-na-na (etc.)

First things first: I am not a rich lady. I realize that some of my previous outfit posts have included luxury handbags (the Louis Vuitton here, and my Marc Jacobs bags here and here...clearly I have a problem with high-end accessories, but the rest of my wardrobe comes from the Goodwill.) Believe me, I am far from a rich lady. Rich ladies have drivers and personal jewelers at Fred Leighton and private yoga instructors. They summer in sprawling estates on East Hampton and Bermuda. Rich ladies are frenemies with other rich ladies, whom they battle with on charity boards and lunch with at restaurants that serve $55 teeny tiny appetizers on huge white plates. They are Botoxed and face-lifted and silicone-filled, and have their plastic surgeons on speed-dial.  Nannies care for their children, yappy little dogs are toted around in monogrammed Goyard bags, and personal chefs whip up their organic macrobiotic meals. They are pampered, luxuriant, and deeply, disgustingly wealthy.

I am most emphatically not a rich lady. I sit in carpool bitching at the distracted mom ahead of me who refuses to pull up the three inches necessary to get me out of the crosswalk. I feed my kids corn dogs for dinner - frozen, full-fat corn dogs, stuffed full of delicious things like nitrates and food coloring and preservatives I can't even begin to pronounce. I mop the floors, make the beds, clean the toilets and whine about the mountain of laundry that I can never, ever seem to catch up on.

If I were a rich lady, though, the first thing I'd do is change out of my thrifted (insert random article of clothing here) and into any of the following from Dior's Spring 2011 collection. Seeing these clothes makes my insides curdle with desire and my hands curl into grabby gimme-gimme ineffectual fists. I wish I had the occasion and money to dress myself in such a fantastically dramatic, feminine way. But mostly, though, these outfits induce fantasies of how I'd pull them off in real life.

This one would be perfect for viewings of horribly tedious (though deeply adorable) first grade school plays.

Photos via Style.com

I'd wear this delicious pastel number while pumping gas and smoking a cigarette through a vintage Art Deco cigarette holder (which I imagine is included with the dress.) I'm not sure that voluminous skirt would fit in my car, though. And it's probably illegal to smoke while in a gas station, come to think of it.

I can only imagine the ruckus that would result if I wore this towering plume of a hat to Despicable Me (or whatever kid-friendly movie is playing at the moment.) I'd probably get pelted with kettle corn.

I can see how sitting in carpool is these gowns might be a tad bit...uncomfortable. Wiggle skirts and cloud-like layers of tulle are practical for one thing, and one thing only: wearing to the Oscars. Or making Rachel Zoe say ba-nanas over and over and over and over again until her head spins and lifts her into the air like a helicopter.


I am forced to admit that there are no frothy Dior concoctions in my future. So here's what I wore today. My outfit might be missing red lipstick and stiff-shouldered swagger, but, alas, but it will have to do.

Vintage thifted sweater tunic; Michael Stars long-sleeved tee; Gap belt; Gap Outlet jeggings; Frye boots; Plato's Closet leather bracelet

Nine-Oh-Two-One Oh Honey, No: A stumble through the mall

This morning I went to the mall. You know, for research. The things I do for my readers!

I have a love/hate relationship with the mall. Perhaps you can relate. I hate how overpriced everything is. I hate the unidentifiable noxious scent wafting from Abercrombie and Finch. I hate the long lines, and the sound of toddlers screaming, and the fact that the bathrooms are never, ever clean. But I love the ease of having some of my favorite stores neatly contained under one roof. I love cooing at the adorably overdressed babies catching story time at Barnes and Noble. I love grabbing coffee at Starbucks, and the whimsical windows at Anthropologie, and those department store make-up ladies who look like they had their cosmetics applied by transvestites. In the dark. 

Mostly, though, I love the people watching. That's the real reason I go to the mall. Today I visited Northpark Center in Dallas, which displays the most colorful species of shoppers in North America. Every corner revealed some new, wondrous cluster. There were the ladies who lunch, clad in Tory Burch and Chloe, giving each other the up and down as they sipped their iced green tea. There were the emaciated urban hipsters, resplendent in skinny jeans, stalking the newest plastic-rimmed sunglasses in Urban Outfitters. You also had your Botoxed-injected mall walkers, your rosy-cheeked Lululemon soccer moms, your exquisitely tailored gay men in Tom Ford suits, and your groups of giggling pre-teens training to master the art of simultaneous texting, flirting, shopping and walking.

I could spend hours at Northpark just observing the shoppers. Today, though, I was on a quest to peruse jewelry at Forever 21. As I made my way towards a glistening display of shiny shiny blindingly shiny necklaces, I came across this:

It was as if I tumbled into a Very Special Episode of 90210. You know, the one where Kelly develops an eating disorder and Brandon gets drunk and arrested and David has a rap career and Brenda pretends to be French and Steve bribes a janitor to break into school and change his math grade and Donna almost has sex but she's going to remain a virgin until she gets married, God damm it, and it's all VERY VERY SERIOUS. It was *that* bad.

I just don't think I can get behind the 90's floral dress revival. I was there the first time, and believe me, it wasn't good. I prefer to leave Kelly and Donna and Brenda and their poly-blend dresses in the past, mostly because I haven't a clue how to wear these clothes off without looking like a sad middle-aged woman playing dress-up. But that's just me. If you can give some tips on successfully pulling of this look, I'm all ears. I could use the help.

Today I went with a recently acquired thrifted faux-fur vest and skinny cargoes. Brenda and Kelly might scowl with disapproval, but at least I was comfortable.

Thrifted I Heart Ronson faux-fur vest; Old Navy shirt; Michael Stars long-sleeved tee; Gap Outlet cargos; thrifted booties; Forever 21 belt; Plato's Closet leather bracelet

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Laura Ingalls, fashion icon and bad ass

When I was seven, there were only three things I wanted in this world:

1. Long, wavy, glossy blonde hair, like the girl in the Johnson and Johnson's Baby Shampoo commercial,
2. A pony, preferably white, whom I would name Candy, and
3. To be a rough and tumble prairie woman in a faded floral dress, crossing the country in a covered wagon.

As a young girl, my all-time favorite books were those from the Little House On The Prairie series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Did you ever read them? Little House follows the adventures of the Ingalls family - Ma Caroline, Pa Charles, Mary, Laura, Carrie, and baby Grace - as they travel through the Midwest during the nineteenth century, searching for a hospitable place to settle. The books are told from Laura's perspective, and they do a beautiful job describing the rigors of life in the nineteenth century; specifically, the struggles the family faced against disease, frigid cold, governmental regulations, and Native Americans competing for the same land and food. 

Although I loved everything about the books, Laura was what drew me in so deeply. I desperately, desperately wanted to be Laura. Because, let's face, Laura was kind of a bad ass, and she led a suitably bad ass adventuresome life. I wanted to call my father Pa, and help him build a dugout house from the side of a hill, and listen to him trill out a hillbilly folk song on his violin. I wanted to wear faded floral dresses and pinafores with petticoats peeking out.  I wanted a dog named Jack to scamper next to me while I chased frogs out of the pond.  I wanted an older sister to squabble with (no offense to my younger brother, with whom I shared many legendary battles.)  I wanted a mother as sweet as Caroline, who wore a bucolic smile while darning homespun dresses. But, mostly, I wanted to challenge that mean, nasty Nellie Oleson in an epic mudfight, just like Laura did. Laura was loving and affectionate, but also mischievous and scrappy. I wanted to be the same. Hell, I still want to be her.

I was thinking about Laura when I plucked this dress out of my closet. In another form or color, the floral print might be dainty. But here it kind of smacks you in the face. It's feisty and still kind of sweet. If Laura was around today, it's something I imagine she might pick out, now that she can shop beyond the mercantile.

Forever 21 denim jacket; Forever 21 dress; thrifted Gap turtleneck; American Apparel tights; Target socks; Frye boots; Plato's Closet leather bracelet; Fossil hoops.

 

Pajamas in public: The end of civilization as we know it

This weekend I've attended to my usual activities: Listening to my children fight over the Wii controller, catching up on my favorite blogs, and doing my grocery shopping for the week. I was reviewing my shopping list in Wal-Mart when I nearly smacked into a fellow shopper. On first glance, she seemed a lot like me: A suburban housewife-type, counting her coupons and pushing a cart loaded with sugary cereals and juice boxes. However, that's where the similarities ended. Because this middle-aged, harried woman was wearing pajamas and slippers. In public.

I was thinking about this woman when I watched an infomercial for what might be the most terrifying, visionary product of our time. I am referring to Pajama Jeans. I was introduced to these specimens through this purely professional, highly polished, not at all cheesy video. In short, Pajama Jeans are $40 sweatpants masquerading as jeans. According to their website, they have "high contrast stitching, brass rivets and an unbeatable fit" and they're made of "dormisoft fabric (95% cotton, 5% spandex) that doesn't tug or bind" and "is as soft as cotton." They also feature "real designer details...like pockets!" (When are pockets "designer details"?) Watching the infomercial, we are to believe that Pajama Jeans can take us from slumber to "lunch with the girls" with nary a glance (unlike traditional pajama bottoms, which would cause social rejection and desperate phone calls to Clinton Kelly of What Not To Wear.) 

Listen up, people: It's time to put down our sleepwear and start wearing real clothes in public. I believe that the type of people who buy Pajama Jeans are those who find it too challenging to wear regular old jeans (or even jeggings, which feature actual zippers, functional pockets and belt loops.) This perplexes me, because jeans are what most people wear when everything else seems too complicated. And why do our clothes need to be so soothing that, if we were to suddenly become narcoleptic, we could fall asleep in them without nary a pinch or zipper getting in the way? Are we that lazy that we can't button on some damm pants in the morning? From sweatpants to the Snuggie to footed pajamas, does America really need another piece of clothing to seduce us into spending more time on the couch? I understand that feeling of warmth and security you had when you would wake up on a Saturday morning in your footy pj's and sit in front of Tom and Jerry cartoons while your mother poured you a bowl of Fruity Pebbles and catered to your every whim. No responsibility, no ambition, just the pure, mindless pursuit of pleasure.

But, in my opinion, if you can't get out of your pajamas to go out of the house, and have to buy pajamas that look like jeans, then don't leave the house. But that's just me. I spent the day catching up on Hoarders and playing Mousetrap with my kids, but even I managed to coordinate my tights with my thermal.

What do you think about Pajama Jeans?  Am I nuts for finding them...questionable?

Thrifted Ann Taylor chambray shirt; American Eagle thermal, thrifted Old Navy corduroy skirt; J Crew tights; Target socks; Frye boots; thrifted Fossil belt; Plato's Closet leather bracelet

The hippie-hippie shake

My parents were pseudo-hippies to the extreme. They did not head for San Fransisco following the Grateful Dead. They didn't live in a commune or grow their own vegetables. Nor did they construct homemade signs protesting the Vietnam War, nuclear development, or civil rights. However, they were dressed appropriately for such activities. I am certain they believed their clothes demonstrated their inclusion into the counter-culture. A far as they were concerned, they were radicals. They were bohemians. Along with their generation, they left the mainstream behind and bravely moved forward into the world of dirty hair and folk music.

My mother ironed her locks straight, parted them in the middle, and grew them down to her waist. Early photos of her document the hippie style that dominated the 1960's - bell bottom jeans, clogs, love beads and peasant blouses. She also owned a leather fringed vest, wildly printed minidresses and Native American jewelry. She practiced yoga, took pottery classes and wore little to no makeup. My dad sported an impressive Jew-fro, the afro of the whitest white people populating the planet, and a bushy mustache. His clothes were purchased at the army-navy surplus store. His claims to glory were the road trip he took around the country in his VW minivan, and his trip to Woodstock, where he hitchhiked and slept in the mud.

My parents played records by Simon and Garfunkel, Carol King, Joan Baez and The Byrds. Macrame plant holders swayed in our kitchen, and my father grew pot in our basement. I was raised on homemade baby food, and some of my earliest memories include picnics under willow trees on worn tapestry blankets with my parent's hippie friends.

Eventually, my mom and dad abandoned their dirty clothes and counterculture ways. My dad began to wear neckties and suits. My mom cut her hair and started listening to Blondie. They bought a co-op in a deeply suburban neighborhood, sold their VW minivan,  and saw their hippie friends less and less.

I think my personal style is a blend of bohemian and conservative elements. I love my flared-leg pants, ethnic jewelry and concert tees. But my closet also contains button-down shirts, tailored blazers and ultra skinny jeans. Today's outfit is a perfect representation.

What fashion era do you feel best represents you? Who are your fashion influences?

Free People crochet tunic; Joe's Jeans jeggings; Target long-sleeved white tee; Frye boots; Plato's Closet leather bracelet.

The siren call of the sweater dress

This is the outfit that almost wasn't.

Four years ago, after dropping the boys off at preschool, I engaged in my favorite weekday activity: wandering through the aisles at Marshall's or TJ Maxx looking for deals. These stores have always been among my favorite places to shop. They offer substantially low prices on this season's clothes, and their shoe departments cannot be beat. I also adore the fact that I never know what I'm going to find. I might unearth a couture Ralph Lauren wool blazer, or Kate Spade boots, or a Marc Jacobs clutch, or a pair of Seven For All Mankind jeans. And, most of all, I love the shock I see when I reveal the source of my designer items. I really believe there is absolutly no reason to pay full retail price for anything at all, ever, thanks to TJ's and Marshall's.


So there I was, trolling the sale rack, when I stumbled upon a little flecked green sweater dress. Hell-o!, it whispered. Check out my pretty Faire Isle design, my dainty leather tie, my flattering just-above-the-knee length. Wouldn't I look fantastic with leggings or skinny jeans and boots? Imagine how warm I'd keep you. Winter arrives in a week, after all. Notice my label - I'm made by one of your favorite brands. And my price - $38, down from $129! I was made for you! It beckoned. It tempted. It seduced.


The sweater dress and I considered one another. Truthfully, I had never worn a sweater dress before. Winter was quickly approaching. And I was sick and tired of my cable knit cardigans. Okay, sweater dress, I decided. I'll give you a try.


I took it home. Hung it in my closet. Where it languished, up until today.


So what happened? Well, truthfully, I didn't think I had the right body-type for a sweater dress. While it was gorgeous on the hanger, once it left the store I concluded that it required a tall, slim, super-model type. A gazelle in knee-high boots. At five feet four inches, I'd look a fool. It would accentuate my short legs, my petite torso, my slight twin baby pooch. Despite these reservations, I couldn't let the sweater dress go. So I hung onto it for four years, checking on it every now and then, waves of regret washing over me.


This morning dawned chilly and damp. I opened my closet, and the sweater dress called to me. This time, I put it on. And I felt fantastic.

Free People sweater dress; Gap long-sleeved tee; J Crew sweater tights; Target knee socks; Frye boots; Plato's Closet leather bracelet; vintage Coach satchel; vintage thrifted fur cape.