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!)

Shoes versus bags - which side are you on?

Today I introduce you to the world's cutest bag. It's studded. It's black. It weights approximately 10 ounces. While many purses strive to be functional, this one is mostly decorative. The opening is just barely wide enough for a lipstick, my driver's license, and a credit card. And yet my love for this bag borders on obsessive. I stalked Gap.com for weeks waiting for it to come in, and my hands trembled with delight when I placed my order. It makes me inexplicably, ridiculously happy.

Since I was a little girl, I've had a thing for purses and handbags. Some people stroll through the mall and see shoes beckoning from windows, watches and jewelry glistening in cases, and hear the soft beckoning of this season's pencil skirts and cardigans. I see bags. Bags I'm thinking of buying, bags I already own, bags I can't understand, bags that could double as luggage, bags I couldn't dream of being able to afford. They sit in store windows and swing from the shoulders of shoppers, teasing me with their studs and zippers and tassels and quilting.

From canvas, to crocodile, to butter-soft leather, on and on through my daydreams they march, each more unique and coveted than the last. They haunt me, these bags. I fantasize about the sequined Marc Jacobs clutch I spied in Neiman Marcus back in September. An Urban Outfitters satchel from spring '07 is a frequent player in my fashion daydreams. And don't even get me started on 1994's Lady Dior, which makes my hands clench into ineffectual grabby-grabby fists of want.

Truthfully, as I progressed from little girl to teenager to adult, I never thought I'd stay a bag person. I always thought I'd morph into a shoe person. Shoe people are impetuous and fun and understand that fluctuating waistlines are no match for a jaunty little pair of heels. When nothing else fits, a new pair of shoes will. Shoe people read blogs like Sea of Shoes and Obsessed with Shoes, where they spend hours researching this season's ankle boots. Shoe people travel in packs and will happily spend an entire afternoon in the Saks shoe department. They talk about footwear by name: Mary Jane. Billy. Karolina. They spend afternoons obsessive-compulsively organizing their shoes according to heel height and color. And they speak the language as if they were born into it - vamp, brogues, t-strap, grommet.

Mostly, though, shoe people are willing to sacrifice their comfort and sanity for a gravity-defying pair of heels. I am not. An hour in heels transforms me into a whining cripple. But a bag would never torment me the way a pair of stilettos could. Give me J Crew's sequined, chain-strapped minaudière over a sparkling pair of pumps any day. I'd rather sling Bodkier's aggressively-zippered Howard Street satchel over my shoulder than suffer in black leather platforms. And with the coming of seventies fashion for spring, you'd better believe I'd chose a color-blocked flap bag (such as this little beauty from Marc Jacobs) over a sky-scraping pair platform sandals.

A bag doesn't require a pedicure and endless supply of band-aids. I don't have to consider hem height and hosiery. The weather forecast is of no importance in my choice of what to carry. I can walk to my closet, pick a bag off the shelf, and be done.

And now I ask you: Are you a shoe person, or a bag person? Do we need to be one or the other? And what's your favorite bag?

Forever 21 lace top; James Pearse tank (under top); Seven For All Mankind jeans; Forever 21 necklace; Nordstrom cross necklace; Gap leather bag; Steve Madden flats; Betsey Johnson gold watch

Outfit Post: Oooh, Prado!

(If you can guess the movie this post title came from, you win...nada. Sorry. But I'll still think you're  amazing. And that counts for something, right?)

I am a born a raised New York City girl. I took my first subway ride as a toddler, know the best place to get a kosher sour garlic pickle, learned to drive on the Grand Central Expressway (also known as the North American Autobahn) and can hale a cab like no one's business. As a result, I have planned many a NYC getaway for friends. There are certain activities that are simply non-negotiable, such as eating a bagel with lox and a schmear, walking through Central Park, visiting Ground Zero and seeing the latest exhibits at the MOMA and Met. However, another activity often falls high on the list: Taking in the knock-off's on Canal Street.

The whole Canal Street experience is slightly surreal and completely sinister. Imagine an overcrowded city neighborhood, bustling almost to suffocation with pedestrians, businessmen, tourists and schoolchildren. Approximately 96% of these people are Chinese. The air is perfumed with the scent of urine, moo shu pork, and body odor. Streets are crammed with teeny tiny little shops covered with iron gates, seemingly out of business. Then, suddenly, a signal is given, and the gates swing open to reveal enormous displays of fake bags, knock-off jeans, rows of watches, and logo-ed scarves. It's an orgy of Gucci, Chanel, and Burberry. Oh my!

Personally, I've found trips to Canal Street a kind of depressing experience. It's hard not to feel sad for those fake bags, pretending to be something they're not. And, even worse, there's the fear that some are authentic, and might have "fallen" off the back of a truck. The last thing anyone needs is a midnight visit from the Chinese mafia. And yet, I kind of get the allure of a Canal Street trip. It's the possibility of what you might see. Maybe you'll spy a mirror knockoff of the Louis Vuitton Neverfull you've been lusting for since 2006. Perhaps a shiny "Rolex" watch will beckon. Maybe a scrawny Chinese fellow will lead you to a secret-y secret underground shop filled with enough Marc Jacobs to induce swooning.You never know.

Though I don't carry knockoffs, I always thought a fake Vuitton or Chanel bag was an easy way to stick it to those yachting, champagne-swilling LVMH moneymen (aside from being totally and completely illegal. Which they are.) However, Scientific American's study regarding faux bags makes me reconsider. Researchers at UNC Chapel Hill, Harvard Business School, and Duke conducted a series of experiments that showed that people who wear (or believe they are wearing) counterfeit goods are also significantly more likely to cheat and lie.

In one study, a large sample of women were given Chloé sunglasses. The glasses were real, but half the women were told they were fake. Researchers asked them to take a math quiz and grade themselves on the honor principle. The results?

The women who thought they were wearing the fake Chloé shades cheated more - considerably more. Fully 70 percent inflated their performance when they thought nobody was checking on them-and, in effect, stole cash from the coffer.

The scientists concluded that "faking it makes us feel like phonies and cheaters on the inside, and this alienated, counterfeit 'self' leads to cheating and cynicism in the real world." What I would take from this study is this - if you give women doing studies trash, they will act like trash. Ouch. Then again, maybe it's that they were forced to take a test wearing sunglasses and couldn't see what they were doing.

So here I am, with my completely authentic, ridiculously overpriced (and thankfully gifted) Louis Vuitton Speedy. And I don't have to worry about being a victim of the Chinese mafia, or my conscience.

How do you feel about knock-off merchandise? Be honest - would you ever carry a fake bag?

Loft cardigan; J Crew Outlet silk blouse; thrifted Seven For All Mankind jeans; Stuart Weitzman ballet flats; Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 bag

 

 

Thrifting 101: Tips for newbies, and dealing with the squick facor

When I was a little girl, one of favorite activities was making mud pies in my front yard. My mother would send me out in my oldest, grungiest clothes with a wooden spoon and some warped Tupperware containers, and I'd go to town creating elaborate concoctions made out of dirt, leaves and basically whatever detritus I could find on our property. Getting nice and dirty never bothered me, and it took a lot to gross me out. Most little girls my own age were repelled by worms, and bugs, and blood, but I was fascinated. Sure, I loved my frilly dresses and hair ribbons. But they were always accompanied by dirt under my fingernails.

I suppose this is why I am unafraid of thrift stores. Thrift store excursions put one face-to-face with musty odors, dust, and dirt. There's a guaranteed ewww factor. Some consider the idea of rummaging through racks of use clothing distasteful, and I've received more than a few raised brows and scrunched noses after confessing my love for thrifting (you can see evidence of this passion here, and here, and here.) But I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon.

Jentine of My Edit recently discussed this very topic in her Thrift Friday series. I was impressed by her tips for those who find thrifting intriguing, yet struggle with getting past what she calls the ick factor. However, I think there's another group of potential thrifters who could use some advice: those who have never, ever been thrifting, and are simply intimidated to enter the store in the first place. I thought I'd add my own tips to both groups. 

• First of all, ask yourself if you are the type of person who can physically handle thrifting. If you have allergies, asthma, a super strong aversion to germs, or are unable to spend much time on your feet, thrifting is probably not for you. Also, you won't always find an item in your size. You won't always find something you like, either. If you are someone who loves to rummage, would sacrifice a half day in pursuit of a bargain, can thrift without triggering allergies, and enjoys the thrill of the hunt, then thrift store shopping is for you.
   
• Decide what time to shop is best for you. You'll need at least a spare hour. Since rummaging requires energy, choose the time of day when you feel most energetic. Some stores are open at night or weekends, and I've found that fewer people visit thrift stores at night. Weekends are likely to be busier, and sales days are by far the busiest. Most thrift stores post hours and information regarding sales on their website; definitely take the time to check before planning an outing.
   
• Leave your purse in the trunk of the car (or at home.) Carrying cash in your pocket frees up your hands for sorting/digging/browsing. And avoid wearing your coat into the store for the same reason.
   
• Understand that the types of people who visit thrift stores are not necessarily the same as in your neighborhood or at church. Thrift stores attract all walks of life. This means that you may be chatted up by lonely souls seeking comfort, confronted by people with intellectual disabilities, or brush shoulders with those down on their luck. All of them have their reasons for being there; just be polite and move on to the next rack.

• If the idea of the Goodwill or the Salvation Army squicks you out, try consignment stores instead. Consignment stores hand-select their items, and some even clean clothing before making it available to customers. They usually sell higher-label merchandise too. They're a nice steps towards becoming comfortable with the idea of wearing previously worn clothing.
   
• Be honest with yourself even before trying on the item (if that's possible - many thrift stores don't include dressing rooms.) Do you really like the style overall - the arms shape, the leg flare, the neck plunge etc? Is it really your color? Don't buy clothes that you don't absolutely love, or don't quite fit, or are otherwise substandard - even if they are a bargain. It's tempting to purchase something because it's so inexpensive, but it's a waste of time, money, and space to buy something that's not quite right.
   
• Check closely for stains, tears, mended parts, stretched stitching (often hard to repair) and marks. Do pants have a shiny seat, are beads or buttons missing, is stitching coming loose? If you see these, ask yourself if they're reparable or so damaged that they're better left behind. Only get items in good condition or capable of an easy repair. Buttons, zippers, and small holes can be replaced or mended by a tailor. Perspiration stains, fade marks, and large moth holes are beyond repair.
   
• And finally, my most-important piece of advice (and I can't state this emphatically enough): Do not feel ashamed or embarrassed to be shopping second-hand. It's practical, smart, and financially sensible. And thrifting makes it possible to find some really unique, vintage pieces that no one else has. Anyone who would put you down for doing it only makes themselves look bad (and shallow.)

Now I ask you: Does any part of thrifting squick you out? Do you avoid thrift stores entirely because of the squick factor? And please share your tips for newbie thrifters!

Thrifted Kimchi Blue cardigan; thrifted Michael Stars henley; thrifted Seven For All Mankind bootcut jeans; thrifted Frye boots; thrifted vintage Whiting and Davis clutch; Betsey Johnson gold watch

 

(Thanks for the positive responses, everyone! I think I'm going to start a Thrifting Thursday series now. It's nice to see that so many people share my passion for thrift stores!)

Androgyny, Prada and Taylor Swift: My relationship with perfume

Do you wear perfume? In my extensive, scientifically conducted research (wave to the five friends I consulted as my subjects) it appears women either love perfume, or avoid it like the plague. I'll admit that I haven't always been a fan. In high school I went through a phase where the only scent I was attracted to was that of Johnson and Johnson's baby powder. Which is comforting and soothing in a way similar to fluffy down pillows, Grandma's hugs, and chamomile tea.

I was first introduced to fragrance in junior high during a clandestine meeting in the girls room. A friend passed me a can of Love's Baby Soft, which she aggressively applied in a noxious cloud. Love's Baby Soft was the must-have scent among those of the junior high set in the 70's and 80's. Featuring top notes of talcum powder, babies, innocence, and light-heartedness, Love's was simple. Basic. It was a pastel angora-blend sweater, the kind that shed little bits of material all over your corduroy skirt but you didn't really care.


I left the Baby Soft behind when I entered high school, and stuck to my Johnson and Johnson's powder. After I graduated, Calvin Klein introduced a revolutionary fragrance meant for both men and women that spread like herpes - CK One. Everything about this scent screams 1994. The packaging was made from 100% recycled materials, and the bottle is sleek and austere, a nod to the 90's minimalism trend that dominated runways. CK One smelled clean and crisp. It was reminiscent of sleek, unsmiling women who flat ironed their center-parted hair, and carried Prada nylon backpacks.


My brush with CK One was short-lived, probably because I'm uncomfortable embracing androgyny. Next came Clinique's Happy, a fruity, citrusy scent. If Happy were a person, she’d be The Girl Next Door. A particularly perky one. She’s young, easygoing, carefree, friendly to everyone, and she smiles a lot. For awhile I alternated between Happy and Juicy Couture, a sickeningly sweet scent with notes of watermelon, apple, pink passion fruit and lilies. Juicy is something Barbie would wear. Or Taylor Swift. I was a fan of these scents when I was a new mom, and I craved a simpler, sweeter time, absent of four a.m feedings and shirts accessorized by spit-up.

As of this moment, my favorite perfume is A Scent by Issey Miyake (which I'm dangerously low on.) It's a warm, delicate, feminine scent with hints of jasmine, hyacinth and cedar - very sophisticated, romantic and quiet. I like to wear it with cozy materials, like soft sweaters and velvet slippers, such as the items I chose today:

Thrifted Marc by Marc Jacobs cardigan; thrifted J Jill white shirt; thrifted Seven For All Mankind button-fly jeans; Stuart Weitzman velvet flats; Nordstrom rack necklace

If you wear perfume, what's your favorite scent?

(Like this post? Check out my thrifting 101 series, my thoughts on staying true to your personal sense of style, and my internal debate over a velveteen blazer. And consider becoming a follower. I LOVE my readers!)

Bargain shopping: Where do you draw the line?

I am one of those people who loves a bargain. Time spent digging through the racks of a discount or consignment store is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make. Unearthing a bargain causes the sort of high I imagine career drug users experience (not that I would know. The strongest drug I've ever used was nicotine.) I love informing someone that my Joe's Jeans were purchased during a particularly fruitful dig at the Salvation Army. I adore the look of respect, gleamed from a stylish friend, when I educate her on the origin and price ($10!) of my embroidered Anthropologie sweater (see below.)  I am almost haughty when examining someone's designer purchase, knowing that I would have paid much, much less for it than the wearer. Indeed, if discount shopping were an Olympic sport, I am absolutely certain I would earn a gold medal.

While I am proud of my ability to score a bargain, this knowledge often gets me in trouble. I have a really really hard time passing something up when I know it's a great deal. This might explain why my closet is crammed beyond capacity. Clothes are spilling out of drawers, shoved into storage containers, lurking underneath my bed. My skirts share hangers.  Belts are sexually tangled together in a hulking lump. 

I have a teensy bit of a problem.

Today I had a few hours to fill, so I tripped off to a newly discovered consignment store near my house. I was lazily thumbing through the racks when I uncovered a new with tags J. Crew Collection 3/4 sleeve gold waxed linen belted jacket (whew.) As an avid fan of J. Crew, I knew exactly what this jacket was worth: $275.oo. Price at the consignment store: $45. Score, right? Well, the jacket was a size large. I am not a size large. Moreover, I have absolutely no need for a 3/4 sleeve gold waxed linen jacket. I can't even imagine how I'd wear it, or where I'd wear it to. I imagine women who wear $275 gold waxed linen jackets pair them with diamonds and Louboutin heels and drink dirty martinis with blue cheese-stuffed olives and live in homes decorated by snooty men of questionable sexuality. But it was such a good deal. I'd be crazy to pass it up.

I spent a good twenty minutes examining the jacket. I unbelted it, tried it on, took it off, put it on again, preened at myself in front of the mirror. I examined the lining, the collar, the strength of the stitching holding the buttons. I could feel the salespeople looking at me, questioning my sanity. 

In the end, I decided that despite the bargain price, the jacket was not a financially reasonable purchase. Because I really had no need for such an opulent piece that wasn't even my size. My most expensive heels are from Marshall's. I hate blue cheese. And so my forty-five dollars would have been wasted. (If you're in the Dallas area and want to know the name of the store I was in, shoot me an email.) Will I regret passing the jacket up? Maybe. But I'm not sweating it.

This outfit? All thrifted. Damn proud of it. And much, much more me.

Are you a devoted bargain-hunter? If so, where do you set your limits?

Thrifted Blues Heroes leather jacket; thrifted Sleeping on Snow flutter-sleeve cardigan; thrifted Michael Stars henley; thrifted Seven For All Mankind jeans; thrifted Doc Martens; Urban Outfitters flower studs.

A discourse on insomnia, or why I wore purple suede boots

Insomnia is a sneaky beast that creeps through your bedroom window one night, nests at the end of your bed, and does not budge without high doses of medication. It will change your brain chemistry, leading you to do things you never, ever would have done on a full night's sleep. Such as foggily putting in only one contact lens in the morning, leading you to freak the hell out out with the fear that you're going blind, and making you feel like a complete moron when you eventually realize you only have one contact lens in.

Insomnia will trick you into neglecting to buy the one thing you most needed at the supermarket. It will cause you to send your kids off to school without their lunch, forcing you to return sheepishly an hour later, lunch bags in tow. It will lead you to wear matchy-matchy outfits, coordinating your shoes to your eyeshadow to your shirt to your toenail polish (I have a thing against this. It just looks too...done.) Even worse, insomnia will transform you from a mildly mannered, happy, light-hearted person into a cranky, obstinate bitch. You'll watch yourself becoming short-tempered and obnoxious and feel powerless to do anything about it. You might flip people off at the drive-through, be snide towards your husband, or give evil side-eye to the perfect looking woman in her perfect outfit with her perfect little doe-eyed children and her Ken-doll perfect husband at the dry cleaners. You will burn with hatred and jealousy, betting that she gets a full eight hours of sleep, on a $10,000 hand-stitched Swiss mattress under a fluffy white down comforter while her adoring husband fans her gently with a palm leaf.

Insomnia will gift you with a lovely pair of heavy, blood-shot eyes. You will stumble around in a stupor similar to drunkenness, counting down the minutes until you can crawl into bed. And yet, when you finally do, you will inexplicably be wide-awake. You'll send anxious, desperate prayers to God praying for sleep, promising to go to church every Sunday, to stop swearing, to cease spending money on clothes and instead donate it to charity if you can just get some sleep. The more worried you get about sleeping, the less likely it becomes that you will actually sleep. Before you know it it's six am and you've only just begun to doze off.

So, here I am, in my matchy-matchy outfit, after three nights without sleep. Sure, I'm smiling. But deep down I'm already terrified I won't sleep that night. And I'm wondering what on God's green earth made me wear these boots, and forget to cut off the little white tag from my belt.


J Crew blazer, Gap button-down; Seven For All Mankind button-fly bootcut jeans;ancient Nine West boots; Target belt, Nordstrom necklace



2010 No-jean challenge: A review

Yesterday brought the end of my no-jean challenge. Needless to say, I was thrilled.

I can't say a month without my jeans was easy. Every morning I would walk through my closet and wistfully gaze at my bootcuts and straight-legs. I'd affectionately touch the softly faded denim and mentally count down the days until I could wear them again. I cursed this challenge. When I went shopping, I'd automatically imagine how a certain sweater or blouse would look with my favorite pair of jeans. My eyes were drawn, almost against my will,  to denim featured in magazines I subscribe to. It seemed that everywhere I looked there were people in jeans - strutting proudly at the supermarket, drinking coffee at Starbucks, chasing after their kids at the playground. I began to feel downright depressed.

Then something strange happened. I began to venture out into skirts and dresses, and discovered that they were as comfortable to wear as jeans and perhaps even more flattering. I felt much more feminine, and even pretty (which is not a word I would use to describe myself.) I remembered why I lived in skirts as a high school and college student: they were easy to wear, and encouraged me to feel girly and sweet.

Near the end of the challenge, I realized why I favor jeans so strongly: they cover me up. Like most women, I struggle with negative body image and am especially self-conscious of my legs. I have terrible anxiety about exposing my gams in public. Shorts terrify me. Because of this fear I abandoned my skirts and dresses years ago. I am learning to accept myself, flaws and all, and venturing back into feminine shapes is a courageous stance towards self-acceptance.

Now that the challenge has ended, will I fall back into my daily uniform of denim? I hope not. Because life is too short not to live bravely. Bring on the skirts and dresses! Today, though, I'm wearing my blue jeans. Just for today.

Would a month without jeans be a challenge for you? How would you make it work? 


Vintage thrifted blazer; Raygun navy tee; Gap long-sleeved white tee; Seven For All Mankind jeans; ancient Cole Haan boots; Forever 21 belt; Nordstrom Rack necklace



(This tee is the bomb. I saw it on the host from Man Vs. Food and had to have it, as it pays homage to three things dear to my heart: Iowa, the Beastie Boys, and Brooklyn, NY.)