Outfit Post: Confessions of a control freak

There's a long list of things I would like to change about myself. There's my tendency to procrastinate - folding the laundry and cleaning the bathrooms and vacuuming and carrying out a myriad of other household tasks. There's my propensity towards driving too fast on the highway. And let's not forget my intolerance towards people that bring more than 15 items to the express check-out line at the supermarket. However, if I had to name what I'd consider my greatest character "challenge,"  I'd say it's my need to feel in control. I go through life the way I drive: gripping the steering wheel until my arms get all scary and veiny and it looks like I'm going to rip the damm wheel off.

Those with issues around control tend to be described by the following attributes: They are dominating, and picky, and highly critical. They are raving perfectionists. They would rather give orders than take them. Someone with control issues finds winning an argument much more fulfilling than finding the right solution, and often makes the people around them anxious, if not alienated. Furthermore, those with control problems often have difficulty trusting others and have a profound fear of having their flaws exposed. Exerting control over our environment is a fundamental human need, but in a certain portion of the population, the mechanism for managing such a need simply doesn't exist. "Control freaks try and control every aspect of the environment," says executive coach Jon Stokes of Stokes & Jolly. "They obsesses. They try to assemble masses of information"

I rationally understand that it's simply not possible for me to always be in control. But more often than not, I find myself struggling to feel like I am. Whether it's insisting on certain seat in a restaurant (usually facing the front entrance, so I can keep tabs on anyone entering and leaving,) or imagining any number of horrific scenarios (so I can work them through in my mind and plan exactly how I'll respond,) my need to feel in control of myself and my circumstances has a significant impact on my life.

For a long time, my need to control was directed at my body. From the foods I put in my mouth to the amount of calories I consumed, I was most definitely in charge and no one - no one - could change that. Studies have shown that many anorexic individuals try to exert control over their bodies through deprivation of food, because they feel very little control over any other aspect of their lives.

But now that I'm solidly in recovery, my control issues squeak out through my shopping habits and wardrobe. I'm constantly in search of the "perfect" piece - the right shade of denim skirt, the sublime touch of a glossy fur, the preppy cut of a slim vintage blazer, the glistening sparkle of a sequined top - and having the perfect wardrobe. It seems I never have the right items to make an outfit look, well, perfect. Nevermind the fact that my closet door is bursting off its hinges. I am convinced that if I keep shopping, and searching, somehow I'll get it right. And if I'm not shopping I'm reorganizing my closet, purging and categorizing and color-coding every item I own. When I feel my life is out of control, this is my self-soothing mechanism. I can't control how often my husband is out of town for work or what my kids do at school,  so I attempt to ease my anxiety by obsessing about shopping, the state of my closet, and dressing "perfectly."

For many women, the search for control is an anxiety management technique of choice. Focusing about what others are doing, compulsively trying make something perfect, or obsessing about appearance are ways through which we create a false sense of security in an unpredictable world. Yesterday, as I was reorganizing and editing and obsessing and categorizing my closet, I wondered if I was the only one who struggled with control issues.  The quest to make everything perfect seems to be something we all deal with at one point or another. Do you think there's a connection between a search for control and perfectionism? Has anyone ever called you a control freak? Do you have to deal with someone who fits the description? How has that affected your relationship?

(Have you entered my giveaway for a gift bag and new bronzing products from The Body Shop? Enter here!)

Lucky Brand jacket; thrfted J Crew chambray shirt; Forever 21 lace top; Gap Outlet jeggings; White Mountain sandals; Charming Charlie rings and bracelets

Outfit Post: The 36 year-old prom queen

So it's May. For many, May triggers thoughts of the following: The bloom of flowers, emergence of leaves on the trees, and summer fashions appearing in stores. But ever since my delicate adolescent years, May has pinpointed my attention on one thing - prom.

I have absolutely wonderful memories of my prom. Much like the royal wedding, prom was about one thing, and one thing only - my dress. I fantasized about that damm dress for years and tormented my poor mother about dress specifications for approximately as long. I daydreamed about the material, the neckline, the poof of the skirt, the amount of sequins and/or beading OR the lack of sequins/beading, and the length. I doodled pictures of Fantasy Dress in the margins of my homework. I cut out pictures of dresses I liked from magazines and carefully pasted them into a scrapbook. I engaged in passionate discussions regarding Fantasy Dress with as much vigor as the Mideast peace talks. This was a big deal.

When the time to purchase Fantasy Dress arrived, I was READY. Or so I thought. I waltzed confidently into my local boutique, shoulders squared and head held high. And I took one look at the rows of dresses for sale and promptly regressed into a cowering quivering overwhelmed creature on the verge of a nervous breakdown. There were SO MANY colors, SO MANY styles, SO MANY fabric choices, and ZOMG I CAN'T DO THIS I AM GOING TO BE NEKKID AT PROM AAAARRRGGGGHHH.

*Deep breath.*

After hysterics and deep breathing into a paper bag and many many glasses of water, I settled on a glorious 1990's Betsey Johnson concoction formulated from dark green lace with a demure sweetheart neckline and flared hem. It was perfect. I adored that dress. I would have worn it to sleep if my mother hadn't vehemently expressed her disapproval.

A few years ago, Morgan Spurlock ate nothing but McDonald's for 30 days and made a movie about it. In March, two New Yorkers inspired by nostalgia and prom season embarked on a much less gross but equally ambitious quest - to wear their prom dresses every day for 30 days straight. Called Take Me To The Prom, the Tumblr's authors documented their experience in their prom gear and provide thoughts on all things prom related. In addition to showing off remixed prom dress looks, Mallory and Bianca share inspirations, tips and tricks, prom stories, and videos. Though their month-long prom party has come to an end, the site is still there as a prime resource for any prom-goer in need of some inspiration. Such as myself. In an obvious example of either brain damage/temporary insanity, I thrifted a vintage prom dress the other day. And I wore it to fetch take-out. For realsies.

Can you imagine having to wear your prom dress for a straight month? Would it be a fantasy for you, or pure torture? Would you revel in the chance for a do-over, or does the mere thought make you break out in high school-like fits of self-consciousness? And what did your prom dress look like? Discuss!

Forever 21 denim jacket; vintage thrifted J Crew denim shirt; vintage thrifted 1980's prom dress ($8!); Gap tights; NYLA booties

Fashion rules broken: Dressing appropriately, wearing double denim, dressing mono-chromatically. Rules are for fools.

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: 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: Abercrombie's tween bikini top controversy and me

When I was pregnant with my first child, my husband and I made a pact that we wouldn't learn the sex of our baby until he or she was born. Like many first time parents, we swore that we didn't care whether we were having a boy or a girl. "As long as it's a healthy baby, we'll be blessed!" we crowed.

Well, I was lying. Kinda. I really, really wanted a girl. I wanted a girl to dress in pink frilly clothes and coddle in a pink frilly nursery. I wanted to grow her hair out into teeny pigtails that would curl adorably at the ends. I wanted a girl to buy dolls for, to read Babysitter Club books with, to spoil with Barbies and stickers and a pink bicycle and Bonnie Bell lip gloss. I imagined afternoons shopping together, accompanying her during mommy-daughter manicures, and giggling with her over pre-teen crushes. My daughter and I would bond over such activities, and be best friends for life.

Imagine my delight when I did have a daughter. And imagine my shock when she turned out to be the consummate tomboy. Becky is ten years old and couldn't care less about Barbies and shopping and make-up. Her favorite books are those in the Captain Underpants series. And forget about make-up and manicures - she has to be nagged to brush her teeth.

However, the closer she gets to becoming a teenager, the more concerned I become about the pressure girls feel to mature before they're developmentally and emotionally ready. We live in a world where the rush to grow begins shortly after birth. You only have to glance at clothing and beauty products marketed to children to see proof. Pole-dancing kits have been available in the toy section of stores, Hooters Girl in Training t-shirts can be purchased for toddlers, and sequined bras and spa treatments are advertised at shops like Libby Lu.

However, products marketed to pre-adolescents can still shock. Abercrombie and Fitch Kids recently introduced padded bikini tops for children as young as eight, igniting controversy among parents and the media. Originally called the 'Ashley Push-Up Triangle Top' (the term push-up has since been dropped) the nylon and spandex garment features padded cups and a string-tied top. Part of the Abercrombie Kids summer collection, it retails for $19.50 and is sold separately from the matching bottoms.

When reading about this late last week, I immediately wondered how these tops made it into stores in the first place. The very idea of a padded swimsuit for tweens is disturbing in and of itself. Sadly, this is not the first time Abercrombie has marketed a controversial article of clothing targeted at pre-adolescents. A range of thongs bearing the words 'wink wink' and 'eye candy' sold by the retailer for the same age group in 2002 sparked a debate, but Abercrombie Kids refused to recall the line. The company said at the time: "The underwear for young girls was created with the intent to be lighthearted and cute. Any misrepresentation of that is purely in the eye of the beholder."

Not surprisingly, consumers and bloggers have had mixed reactions to what some consider a blatant attempt to sexualize young customers. Parents have flooded the ABC Facebook page with comments after a segment regarding the bikini aired on Good Morning America. Babble.com bloggers posted that the push up bra is, effectively, a sex tool, designed to push the breasts up and out, putting them front and center where they’re more accessible to the eye. In an interview with the UK publication The Daily Mail, parenting expert Dr. Janet Rose said "If we continue to try to make our children value 'sexy', I shudder to think what damage we are doing to their future self-concepts and adult values."

However, a minority of parents are arguing that padded bikini tops are functional and far from titillating. One commenter on Jezebel mentioned that lightly padded swimsuit tops encouraged her to be more comfortable with her own developing body when she was a pre-teen. Others added that extra padding provides more coverage and helps prevent the see-though effect some swimsuits have. Argued a commenter, "Padding does not necessarily mean push up, and it also does not mean sexualization. Padding means that your nipples will not show through."

Having not seen the actual swimsuit in question, I am hesitant to offer an opinion regarding it. I have no idea whether the top is lightly padded for coverage, or heavily padded to enhance developing breasts. However, as a parent, I am aware of the need to distinguish the difference between healthy sexuality and sexualization. I talk to my daughter about what's appropriate to wear and what's not. And I try to set a healthy example of what appropriate dressing means. I believe it is my responsibility to monitor and discuss age-appropriate milestones, such as padded bikinis (and bras, for that matter) with Becky. I never want her to feel inadequate or ashamed of her body, and I hope frequent discussion between us will help her foster a healthy body image.

Now I put this to you: What do you think of retailers marketing padded bikinis and bras to tweens? Do you think tween padded tops are scintillating or vulgar, or do you see them as a innocent and functional tool for body acceptance? Do you believe it is solely the parents’ responsibility to monitor age-appropriate milestones, or does the retailer have a moral obligation to do so as well? 

Thrifted J Crew velvet blazer; thrifted gray Gap sweater; thrifted Loft shorts; Hue tights; thrifted Cole Hann booties; Forever 21 necklace; Anthropologie bag

And here's one of my beautiful girl before the daddy-daughter. That bow in her hair is an anomaly.

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: Going easy on myself

I am hard on my body.

I spend countless hours hunched over my laptop, eyes squinting and straining long into the night. I jam my feet into constricting pointy-toed flats and spindly high heels. I nurse blisters while logging miles on the treadmill. Tight skinny jeans are an integral part of my wardrobe. I toss and turn so much when I sleep that I wake with some fantastic kinks in my neck and back. And I was downright sadomasochistic when I was in the throes of my eating disorder.

For years I believed that pampering was selfish and self-indulgent. I refused to participate in anything I considered luxurious and unnecessary, including taking baths, shopping (I know, can you believe it?) napping, and even taking an Advil when I had a headache. I prided myself on my ability to push through exhaustion and deprive myself. Ultimately, this was about staying disconnected from my body. I was so uncomfortable with feeling that I did everything possible to prevent it. The goal was to keep myself as numb as possible.

Over the past few years I've learned how important self-compassion is. People who neglect their own needs and forget to nurture themselves are more susceptible to low self-esteem and feelings of resentment. Also, those who spend the majority of their time focusing on others while ignoring their own needs can be at risk of burning out. The NY Times recently featured an article expounding on the importance of self-compassion. People who score high on tests of self-compassion have less depression and anxiety, and tend to be happier and more optimistic. Preliminary data also suggests that self-compassion can even influence how much we eat, and may help some people lose weight.

Thankfully, being nice to yourself doesn't require a ton of money or big investment. It can be as simple as taking a walk, grabbing a cup of coffee, or listening to music. I don't go for expensive indulgences or anything complicated...actually, the simpler the better. Here are my favorite ways to pamper myself:

1. Fresh flowers: I think I can count the number of times I've bought myself flowers on one hand. Which is really a shame, because they make me feel so good. Whether they're a $5 bunch of daisies from the supermarket or a $60 arrangement of roses and lilies, flowers remind me that I'm feminine and sensual. And they smell nice too.

2. Good wine: It can be tough to rationalize spending more than $10 on a bottle of wine. But having a glass at the end of the day is such a delicious treat. I always feel very grown-up and sophisticated when pouring myself a glass of wine. But, then again, I'm a dork.

3. Baths and bubble baths: Baths are my universal cure-all. Feeling cold? Depressed? Exhausted? There is no more effective cure than sinking into scalding hot water and zoning out. A rich, aromatic bubble bath makes the experience that much better. I'm partial to those from TokyoMilk and Bath and Body Works, though any old kind of bubble bath does the trick. Thick shower gels and lotions make me feel pampered and girlish and remind me to take better care of my skin.

4. Candles: I was never really into candles. I know women who have so many around that their houses resemble monasteries. But in the last two years I've been burning candles more often. They instantly relax me, and they smell so good. My favorite is the Baltic Amber candle from Voluspa - it smells like vanilla, cedar and sandalwood.

5. Time with friends: This one seems silly - being with friends hardly seems luxurious, right? But it's so easy to get caught up in the responsibilities of work, parenting, housekeeping, boyfriends and spouses that we lose track of connecting with others. I've gone through periods where I lived a hermit-like existence, forgetting to return phone calls and emails and neglecting to make time for dinner and drinks with my friends. But I always, always feel better after meeting up with them. Last night I met up with Tina of T Minus T Plus and Erin of Work With What You've Got. I had a great time and feel more confident and connected today as a result.

What are some ways you pamper and take care of yourself? How do you reduce stress? Do you ever find it challenging to take care of yourself?

Forever 21 silk top; Gap Outlet jeggings; thrifted Justin vintage boots; thrifted J Crew denim shirt; thrifted vintage western belt; Forever 21 necklaces; Forever 21 bracelets

Outfit Post: Am I old?

The other night I cuddled up on the couch with a glass of wine and watched in the circus that is the Grammy Awards. I took in performances by Justin Bieber and Katy Perry and Cee-Lo, along with throngs of teenage girls (and boys) who screamed their little tousled heads off in appreciation. There was glitter, and Rhianna in a dress that looked like a collapsed wedding cake, and Nikki Minaj as Elvira Queen of the jungle.  

As I watched the awards, it dawned on me that not only had I never heard of some songs being performed, most of the artists looked pre-adolescent, undernourished and in desperate need of showering. I became more and more confused. Have Kim Kardashian and J. Lo morphed into one glamazon super-creature? Was that my perfect perfect Gwynnie writhing and moaning on Cee-Lo's piano? (and has Cee-Lo taken a second job substituting for a Mardi Gras float?) AND what in God's great name am I supposed to make of Gaga's egg arrival and shirtless gogo dancer minions? Was it some kind of pro-poultry STATEMENT? Will I be expected to carry signs and protest in front of a federal building this weekend??? Because I have plans, you know.

As the show continued, a fear struck deep into my heart: I am officially getting old.

Getting old terrifies me. It means I'm crotchety and old-fashioned. Old people watch PBS and clip coupons and drive under the speed limit and read the newspaper in the library and rail about the demise of society. They reminisce about a time when a hamburger cost a quarter and people waited until marriage to have sex. They sit across from each other in really depressing restaurants like Denny's and don't talk. Old women wear polyester underwear pulled to their chins and perfume from Estee Lauder and spend hours in the beauty parlor setting their hair. The music is always too loud and the lines are too long and it's too hot or too cold and OH DON'T WORRY ABOUT ME, I'LL JUST WAIT BY THE PHONE FOR YOU TO CALL, IT'S NOT LIKE I HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO. TOMORROW I MIGHT BE DEAD YOU KNOW.

There are lots of other signs which point to my almost elderly status:

My bedtime is creeping dangerously close to ten o'clock.
I aim for high fiber content.
I start sentences with "When I was your age..."
A movie and homemade dinner makes for a happening night.
I use the word "happening".

I sat awake most of the night, convinced I was going to suffer a stroke or heart attack or some other malady that strikes the elderly. But things looked different in the morning. I realized that there are lots of ways I remain youthful. For one, Fruit Loops are my most favorite meal ever. My tattoos certainly channel a young, risk-taking spirit. I love taking my kids to the playground and going down the slide. Ear-damaging loud concerts still make for the perfect night out. Experimenting with cosmetics at the MAC counter fills me with glee. I giggle over Spongebob and Pixar movies and can make a meal out of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And I know how to rock my skinny jeans.

I suppose this outfit is a combination of my young and old parts. The cardigan is a senior citizen meatloaf-and-green-bean early bird special, but the jeans are a twenty-something grad student on her way to meet friends for late-night cocktails.

Do you ever feel "old"? How do you deal with the aging process? Does your age affect your personal style?

Gap cardigan; thrifted J Crew long-sleeved tee; Paige Skyline skinny jeans; Via Spiga bag; Cole Haan loafers; Gap Outlet belt; Nordstrom necklace

 

What I wore when facing a terrifying internet diagnosis

Yesterday morning I woke up a bit sniffly and sore-throaty. By nightfall I could no longer deny that I had come down with a bad cold. Naturally, before popping Advil or making tea with honey or doing anything normal people do when they get sick, the first thing I did was answer quizzes about my symptoms over the glow of the computer screen. Did my head suffer from a stabbing pain, a sharp pain, or more of a dull ache? Did my cold come on suddenly, or had I felt sick for days? Did I feel queasy? Sweaty? Nauseous? The computer spit out a variety of terrifying diagnosis: Brain tumor. Cerebral laceration. Influenza. Today was going to be a long day.

One of the most important (and wildly ignored) lessons I've learned in my online life is that if you're sick, or anxious, or anxious about being sick, the internet is only going to make things worse. Perhaps you can relate.

For example, I've learned that, if pregnant, just don't Google anything. Ever. You will go from a perfectly normal pregnant woman, wondering why you have a side cramp, to a sobbing, heaving, hysterical wreck who may or may not be carrying a severely deformed Elephant Man-child with one eye and six arms, who will probably be born and immediately descend into a life of crime because you had half a glass of WINE last week, and now you're a terrible mother and your child stands no chance and oh, you should check for a fever because you've probably CONTRACTED MALARIA and YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW WILL BE DEAD, and did I mention there is some horrible malady affecting your baby right now? RIGHT THIS VERY INSTANT?!?! That will teach you to take Benadryl, you drug-addicted harpie.

I usually turn to the Web for advice on common ailments. Mistake. Got a UTI? You should drink cranberry juice, not drink cranberry juice, eat yogurt, avoid dairy, take antibiotics, but be aware that the antibiotics will interact with your birth control, except when they won't, but it doesn't matter because you shouldn't have sex for three days/a week/two months/the rest of your life because what if you give the UTI to your partner/push it up into your brain/get hysteria? There's so much conflicting information on the Internet that even a minor illness can become a complex psychodrama of contradictory recommendations. I once determined, with help from WebMD, that I had a brain aneurysm. Turned out to be a sinus infection.

And don't get me started on the labyrinth of despair I enter when it comes to my children. When my daughter was 5 months old, I once googled "diaper rash". I figured it was a normal thing, but hey, why not google it just to be safe? Wrong. Don't google anything involving the word rash. Just don't. Out spat information regarding the tropical fungus my child was most likely infected with, and a sly accusation of child abuse and neglect. I spent a month feeling like the worst mother on the planet and half-expecting CPS to swoop in. I was convinced they'd be doing me a favor anyway because OBVIOUSLY I couldn't be trusted to care for a child.

I have no doubt that there are some people who can simply visit MayoClinic.com, get reassurance or a few questions to ask their doctors, and then move on without tumbling down a rabbit hole of anxiety and photographs of lesions. But not me. No sir, most certainly not me.


While I wanted to spend the day under the covers in my favorite flannel pajamas, I had to leave the house. We know how I feel about people who wear pajamas in public, so that wasn't an option. Instead, I went with something classic, comfortable, and warm. My head might be spinning with terrifying internet diagnoses, and I might be worrying that I'll drown in a pool of my own snot, but you'd never know it, right?

J Crew cardigan; American Eagle button-down; J Crew matchstick cords; Michael Korrs boots; Old Navy belt

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

Gwyneth Paltrow, motherhood, and Brenton stripes

There is absolutely nothing glamorous about being a full-time mom. Unless, of course, you are Gwyneth Paltrow, the world's most perfect person.

Gwyneth is one of those celebrities you either love or loathe. I have no idea why she gets under my skin so deeply. She can seem a little holier-than-thou, educating us about the benefits of kelp, eastern medicine and sugar-free coconut water.She's featured in Vogue in practically a monthly basis, where they rave about her cutting-edge style, all-white marble kitchen, organic garden and perfect perfect blondeness.

Perhaps it should not have surprised me when I came across her insightful account of life as a mom, gleamed from her newsletter, Goop. Behold this description Gwyneth's oh-so-stressful day of going to the gym, singing a country song, and doing a phone interview.

I went up to arouse the little man from slumber and he quite happily got up and crawled into my arms. We got downstairs and I made him a quick breakfast of eggs and toast followed by a spoonful of lemon flavored flax oil that I try to remember to give them both every morning.

On a less manic day, this would be my couple of hours in the office to work on GOOP, come up with ideas, write/edit and go over scheduling, travel, whatever else I have going but I have no time so I just pop the old cabeza in to see if there are any deadlines or fires that need putting out. When I am given the all clear I rush out the door, headed to rehearse with a band to prepare for the Country Music Awards which are just a week away. I've never performed live before so I'm preparing for this as if it were the Superbowl, which, in it's own way, it is. I've been having voice lessons with my teacher, Carrie Grant, every day and rehearsing with an amazing London-based band. This will be my fourth and shortest rehearsal of the week, as the day is so full, but I am excited to get in there and see everyone. Had to do my vocal exercises/warm-ups in the car, sooo not a good look. Fellow drivers looked on a bit bewildered. Rehearsed with the band from 11:30 to 12:30 and then scooted back out to the car and had kind of a big interview on the phone while trying to subtly check/reply to well-overdue email. Got home and had a fitting with super stylist Elizabeth Saltzman for the upcoming Nashville trip (what to wear, what to wear?) from 1-2. This is my 4th out of 5 fittings for this trip. We tried on a myriad of dresses and outfits, and I had b.o. by the end of it from wrestling with all of those dresses. I have six looks I need to choose for the trip; there's the radio press conference upon arrival, the red carpet for the Country Strong premier, press interviews, a Sony Music VIP dinner, the red carpet for the CMA's and the outfit for my performance! We manage to finalize all of the looks for the (very nerve wracking) trip. At 2 pm I head into my office with a nice cup of tea for two hours of phone interviews. I am doing lots of these this week, but today's session is only two hours. I call country radio station after country radio station speaking to some of the nicest and friendliest DJ's on the planet. Thursday is the one day of the week that I do not pick my kids up after school. They go straight to an activity and I am able to really maximize work stuff. I always feel a bit guilty (obviously) about it, but it means I can focus fully on them when they get home instead of trying to do two things at once.

The kids indulge in a super sugary cupcake before bed but I don't feel too bad because they had a brown rice stir fry for dinner with baked sweet potato on the side. It's all about balance! My night to lay with Mosey so I tuck Apple in, say a prayer and go into Mosey's room for a story, foot massage and quiet time. As soon as all was quiet, I rushed downstairs to grab a blazer and some blush and flung myself in the car for girls night. Lovely dinner and great conversation. 11:29 pm now, exhausted and ready to do it all again tomorrow!

So, lots of insight into the glamorous world of motherhood. Let's contrast this with my average day as a mom. Notice the similarities:

Awoke at 6 am with my makeup still on. Dragged myself into the shower, washed up with the sliver of Dove soap my husband so kindly left me. Applied my Cover-Girl foundation and picked out an outfit constructed of pieces dug up from the sale section at the Gap and Goodwill. Chiseled my kids out of bed and fed them a nutritious breakfast of chocolate and frosted Cheerios while Spongebob blared in the background. Got into an argument with my twins regarding why they could not wear their underwear to school and have three breakfasts, and with my daughter concerning the need to drag a brush through her hair because it resembles a rat's nest. Prepared bologna-and cheese sandwiches for their lunch. After driving them to school, I returned home for a cup of non-organic, non fair-trade coffee prepared with full-fat half-and-half. The I wrestled with chores: sweeping the floors, searching for errant Legos that hide under furniture; made the bed; ran and emptied the dishwasher; and folded a load of laundry that was eating my bed.

In the afternoon I ran chores, including grocery shopping at the Wal-Mart. I  grab coffee or lunch with one of my non-celebrity mom friends, where we gripe about how to deal with toddler tantrums, the lack of a sex drive, and the latest Oprah-recommended novel. Then I picked up the kids from school where I learned that Jake got in trouble for dancing in class and Josh had a breakdown because some kid ripped the pom-pom off the top of his winter hat. We got home and I tried to catch up on blogging while attempting to shut out the bleep-bleep-bleep of Super Mario Brothers blaring on the Wii. I paid some bills, writing checks for the electric bill, our credit cards, and the late payment to the landscape guy who ripped us off. Then came dinner. I whipped up nuclear-orange boxed mac and cheese for the kids, and chicken enchiladas constructed from canned sauce, store-brand cheese and a pre-cooked, pre-seasoned, antibiotic-plumped chicken. The kids struggled through their homework - no private tutors for us! I always feel a bit guilty, obviously, but that's how we roll. Then I tried not to fall asleep while catching up on episodes of The Real Housewives of Whatever City They're Filming In. I'm busy, is what I'm saying. I'm no movie star. I'm just me.

So you can understand the need for me to forgo couture evening gowns and designer pieces gifted from Stella McCartney for Brenton stripes and thrifted cords.

Ann Taylor Loft denim shirt; American eagle striped shirt; thrifted J Crew cords; Bruno Magli booties; Forever 21 coat; Forever 21 studded belt, Forever 21 rhinestone earrings.

Compare, contrast, despair: Defining my voice in a blogger's world

I feel like I am wearing a very blogger-approved outfit here:

J Crew denim jacket; Old Navy check shirt; Urban Outfitters stripped tee; Gap Outlet cargos; Forever 21 belt; Via Spiga bag; thrifted booties.

I am wearing the ubiquitous blue check shirt. I am layering. I have belted my shirt quite assertively around my waist. There are thrifted brown booties on my feet. I dressed in a version of the Houlihan cargo, a pant that you couldn't avoid running into this past summer and fall. And, in addition, I am performing the classic head-down pose, employed by style bloggers the world over to seem mysterious, quirky and deliberately nonchalant.

I am an avid reader of style and fashion blogs. From Syd of The Daybook, to Kendi of Kendi Everyday, to Erin of Work With What You've Got, these bloggers have not only taught me how to remix and style my wardrobe, but they've also inspired me to start my own personal style blog. Lately, though, I've been noticing how deeply their style has been bleeding into my own. Sometimes, when I get dressed in the morning, I question how my outfit compares to that of these infinitely more popular bloggers. I wonder, what would Kendi think? Would Erin approve of the way I artfully mixed stripes with plaid? Would Syd have paired these booties with those pants? And my photos...surely they'd all get a get a hearty chuckle over how unpolished and unedited they are.

All this comparing adds up. Before I know it, I've fallen down into a dark tunnel of self-consciousness, self-doubt, and despair. I begin to wonder if I would even know how to make myself presentable without the assistance of my favorite blogs.

For many women, it is an constantly evolving process to define one's own style. I know how much I've changed just in the last few years, trading in my preppy department-store clothes for vintage and thrifted pieces. I am in the process of learning how to dress both appropriately and stylishly, while expressing my own unique perspective on fashion. It's not always easy, especially when I'm struggling to avoid comparing myself to other bloggers.

I believe that the fact that I'm aware of the problem will encourage me to dress for myself. There is room for compromise here - I can still wear what I want, when I want, yet permit myself to continue learning from other bloggers.  I will try to distinguish myself through my unique writing style. Furthermore, I will never, ever quit smiling in my photos. Why do so many fashion bloggers avoid smiling? Clothes make me happy, writing makes me happy, gaining followers makes me unbelievably happy (hint, hint.) What's not to smile about?

I'm curious...do you struggle with comparing yourself with other bloggers, or even just other women in general? If so, how do you manage it?

 

 

Childhood dreams, or why I dressed like an 80's power bitch

It’s difficult to remember my thought processes back from when I was a young girl. My loftiest dreams involved how many times I could swivel a hoola hoop around my hips, and little else held much importance. Times have changed, but it’s fun to recollect some of the simple things that I hoped for as a child.

1. A pantry stocked with sugary cereal.
2. A pony, preferably white.
3. A backyard.
4. A pink Powerwheels car.
5. A tree house.
6. A younger sister.
7. More Cabbage Patch and Barbie dolls.
8. Curly blonde hair.
9. A doll house.
10. Lisa Frank stickers.
11. Cable TV.
12. To have magical powers, i.e that I could fly and make myself invisible.
13. To grow up and move out of my parents house.
14. To live in California (I have no idea why.)
15. To be as stylish as my mom.

In my eyes, my mother's beauty was akin to Joan Collins and Debbie Harry. She was almost aggressively glamorous, and took trends seriously. She had trademark long burgundy nails, with lipstick to match, and wore eighties power suits with dangerous-looking shoulder pads, and straight high-waisted leather skirts. God, I remember those skirts - she owned them in red, cream, purple, and black, made from buttery soft leather, with a long back zipper and small kick pleat. Every morning, after getting dressed, I would perch on the edge of our bathroom sink and watch her carefully apply her make-up. I was fascinated just by the abundance of products - concealer, foundation, powder, liquid eyeliner, multiple eyeshadows blended to the brow, lipstick liner and lipstick applied with a tiny little brush. When she was done, she practically looked embalmed. But I suppose that was fashionable back in 1987.

I suppose I was channeling a bit of her in this outfit. My skirt and red lipstick are very 198o's woman :


Ann Taylor cardigan; Anthropologie ikiat sleeveless swing top; J Crew turtleneck, vintage thrifted leather skirt; Target tights; Justin boots; Hype bag, Forever 21 long rhinestone earrings.



What were your childhood dreams?

(And, can anyone tell me where I can get black opaque tights that are not shiny? I have tights from J Crew, The Gap and Target, and they all photograph with a shiny gleam. Help!)