Outfit post: Inspiration or copycat?

The other day I stood in front of closet, index finger tapping my forehead impatiently, and could not come up with something to wear. It was a stiflingly hot day and I longed for an outfit that was cool and comfortable. I also had some rather Picasso-like abstract tan lines around my shoulders I needed to conceal. I wasn't feeling especially confident about my body, and didn't want to reveal too much skin. Furthermore, my family and I were going out to dinner, and my clothes needed to be appropriate for public viewing. So I did what has become habitual when I'm struggling for style inspiration: I turned on my laptop, cruised a few blogs that I follow, and duplicated an outfit right down to the style of shoes and amount of jewelry.

Initially, I felt fantastic - stylish and attractive. Even - dare I say it? - hot. But as the day wore on I became increasingly uncomfortable. I couldn't keep my shirt tied at the waist like my favorite blogger did. I became self-conscious of the amount of jewelry I had piled on. My skirt felt too short, heels too high, and top itchy and tight. And, worst of all, I felt as if I had betrayed my own sense of personal style. As soon as I got home I ripped the entire outfit off, sat on the corner of my bed, and tried to figure out what went wrong. I had long admired the blogger whose outfit I had duplicated. We had similar senses of personal style and common pieces in our wardrobes. Her outfit photos showed a confident, stylish woman, one many would want to emulate just as I had. So why did I feel so uncomfortable and traitorous? And then a scary thought hit me. Was I a copycat?

So many of us turn to magazines, blogs, and even catalogs (wave to the whimsically layered J Crew outfits) for style advice and instruction. In the aftermath of my style fail, I was left wondering about the difference between being a copycat, and being inspired by a certain look. We all take inspiration from the things we see around us, but at what point does inspiration become copying?

The Free Dictionary defines a copycat as this:

cop·y·cat  

One that closely imitates or mimics another.

v.intr.

To act as an imitator or mimic.

v.tr.

To imitate closely; mimic.

adj.

Closely imitating or following another: a copycat version of a successful product; a copycat crime.

We are all living in what Lawrence Lessig calls "remix culture." It is a time when there is literally nothing new under the sun. You're very seldom going to get an opportunity to do something that does not build on some cultural, artistic, or technical precedent. Copying is what you're going to be accused of it you produce a design that differentiates only in small or superficial details from someone's work. I personally define copying as creating something absolutely identical to what already exists.

Here’s the problem with copying: Copying skips understanding. You have to be able to understand something in order to personally relate to it. When you copy it, you miss that. You simply recycle an idea which someone else generated, based on their own personal life experience. You have no real connection to it, and will always be removed. For this reason, the copy typically lacks depth and detail. It’s usually pretty close, but there’s something not right about it. Which explains why I felt so uncomfortable in my duplicated look.

Inspiration is when you see possibilities no one has seen before. Inspiration comes when we translate a certain concept into something unique and individual. Developing a style further through the use of different accessories, colors, material, and even proportions immediately makes it personal. When you're inspired by a certain design, look or object, your creativity rises. You have energy to put your own twist on it, and make it your own.

At this point in fashion, so little is truly new or original. In order to be unique, you need to exercise your creative muscles and test the boundaries. This might mean branching out from your usual style and trying new looks. While I forgive myself for being a copycat, that doesn't mean I am forbidden from being inspired by other bloggers.  I simply need to have the courage to blend their style with my own perspective, in order to create my own look.

How do you define the difference between inspiration and copycatting? How strong an influence do other fashion bloggers, magazines and catalogs have on your own style? Do you ever feel like a copycat? 

Vintage thrifted white shirt; vintage thrifted denim skirt; vintage thrifted petticoat; Old Navy espadrilles; eBay bracelet

This outfit made me so, so happy. It feels like me. And the petticoat made twirling a requirement.

Outfit Post: The tyranny of the "bikini body"

Memorial Day weekend, 1981: I am seven years old. My parents are hosting a barbecue and have invited my grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins, and neighborhood friends. The air smells like roasting barbecue briquettes, daylilies, freshly cut grass and hot dogs.The rhythmic spurt-spurt-spurt of the sprinkler permeates the air. I am wearing an enticing two-piece yellow terry cloth bikini which ties around my neck, and my cousins and I shriek as we run through the needle-sharp spray of the sprinkler. My waist-long hair drips water down my back. I feel happy, unencumbered and free.

Flash forward to Memorial Day weekend, present day: I am 36 years old. My husband and three children chatter excitedly about going to the neighborhood pool. I have zero desire to go to the pool, because going to the pool means wearing my swimsuit in public. I stand in front of my dresser and try to calm myself down. I try on two-piece after two-piece, self-esteem plummeting in the process. Swimsuits lie tangled on the floor. My thighs seem to expand with each selection. My body takes up too much space. I am flabby and fat and all-together unacceptable. I feel like a failure.

Every summer, I go through the exact same ritual. I become obsessively focused on the notion of the perfect bikini body, an entity I am certain every woman possesses except for myself. The NY Times recently ran an article exploring the notion of the bikini body, examining the effect it has on fear-inspired marketing campaigns and as a symbol of physical perfection.

There's no way of figuring out when the phrase "bikini body" was first uttered or when its tyranny took hold. It's common knowledge that the two-piece as we know it was invented in 1946 by engineer Louis Réard who christened it after Bikini Atoll. The style became popular in the 50's and by the 80's was standard beachwear. As our culture increasingly enshrines physical perfection, the bikini has come to inspire dread and awe. It wasn’t always so. In the 1960s, when bellybutton-baring suits first became popular in America, “it was a youthful phenomenon definitely,” said Sarah Kennedy, the author of “The Swimsuit: A History of Twentieth-Century Fashions.” Then the high-fashion set and movie stars began to put on bikinis, and by the ’70s, she said, the bikini was “worn by all ages.”

And a few extra pounds didn’t disqualify anyone, considering the fitness revolution was still roughly a decade away. (The NY Times mentions that in the book there’s a 1940s photograph of a fresh-faced still-brunet Marilyn Monroe looking smashing in a two-piece, a roll of pale flesh at her midsection.)

Writes The Guardian's Laurie Penny:

When it finally became popular in the 1960s, the bikini was a symbol of physical liberation, of beautiful women reacting to the stern sexual prudery of previous decades by exposing as much skin to the sun as they pleased. Today, as with many iterations of the sexual emancipation rhetoric of the 1960s, wearing a bikini is no longer associated with pleasure and daring, but with anxiety, dieting rituals and joyless physical performance...The bikini body has become cultural shorthand for a moral standard of female perfection whereby any physical flaw should be regarded as a source of shame, an obstacle to collective fantasies of glamour and happiness.

When did  the bikini become the standard of all beauty? I'm going to theorize that the first Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues, published in 1964, had a lot to do with it. With that publication, swimsuits became explicitly linked with the standards of female desirability. Also, the Swimsuit Issue is published in the winter and had little to do with the reality of actual women being at the beach, let alone swimming, and a lot to do with unattainable goals.

"Bikini body" is the going code for "acceptable." It is always in bikinis that the tabloids feature the "best" and "worst" bodies. Type "bikini body" into Google and you get the following suggested searches:

bikini body workout
bikini body diet
bikini body tips
bikini body fast
quick bikini body

The bikini body has nothing to do with overall health, or fitness, or lifestyle. No, it's about shedding "winter weight" fast, before some arbitrary deadline known as "Bikini Season," at which point we're forced to confront a two-piece suit with, naturally, the requisite "bikini wax," and no trace of cold-weather pastyness. Jezebel argues that the "bikini body" craze goes so much deeper than fatism or fatphobia. It is part of our society's relentless insistence that a woman's body is not her own. It is an object to be criticized.  Our society seems to think that a woman wears a bikini not for herself, but for the public to decide her worthiness.

Will the world end tomorrow if I can't cram my butt into a bikini? I was going to ask Stephen Hawking, but, after some careful mathematical calculations, I was able to come up with the answer on my own: No. Does this mean that I still don't have days where I hate my thighs and stomach so much I want to carve them off of my body with a fillet knife? No. But I understand that those days will happen and that they really don't matter because there truly is NOTHING wrong with my body. I've put it through a lot in the past 36 years and it's stuck around and carried me through everything.

So my motto is this: Just be healthy. Eat things that are nutritionally good for you and exercise, but don't forget about delicious, delicious baked goods and gelato from Pacuigo. Don't deprive yourself of things to satisfy the warped and nonsensical views of people that see you as another bottomless pocket and empty head. 

Do what you want, eat what you want, wear what you want, and be who you want.

Now I ask you: How you deal with the pressure of the "bikini body?" Does wearing a swimsuit in public make you break out in a sweat? Do you avoid going to the beach, pool or lake because of this fear? Does wearing a swimsuit cause you to dread summer activities? And do you have a favorite swimsuit that makes you feel great about yourself?

Thrifted Gap chambray shirt: thrifted vintage dress; Old Navy belt; White Mountain sandals; TIKKR watch; Charming Charlie bracelet; Forever 21 necklace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outfit Post: Patricia Field and Kotex want to celebrate your magical lady bits

Earlier this month, U by Kotex launched a collaborative contest with costume designer Patricia Field, inviting people to redesign the maxi pad. "Girls have choices in all aspects of their lives, so why should they settle for boring and institutional feminine care products?" said the company in a statement. For every design submitted, Kotex will donate $1 to Girls For A Change—a non-profit organization empowering girls to create and lead social change within their communities. According to Ad Age, contest winners will work with Field to design new and wild maxi pads, and attend Fashion Week in New York City in September.

Confession: Other than the word panties, my least-favorite word in the English language is vagina. I don't know why - I have one, so therefore shouldn't I be comfortable with the word for it? My issues with the vagina probably have to do with the general discomfort I have regarding my body, femininity and related sexuality. Thankfully, I do realize that I'm far from the only person on this planet with issues regarding the word vagina, which probably explains why there are so many alternatives to it, raunchy as they might be.

It might also explain why commercials and print advertising for products related to female anatomy, and that time of the month, are so archaic. Traditional ads are rich in mysterious ecstasy - women in flouncy skirts, twirling in fields or riding carefree on bicycles; clusters of attractive, young women bonding over their brand of tampon. It's absurd, especially considering that ads describing erectile dysfunction are shown during the five o'clock news. If we can talk so openly and frankly about the penis, why can't we do so about the va-jayjay?

Menstruation has always been marketed as a very personal thing, a magical moment when a woman's uterus whispers sweet nothings captured by a special, pillowy product. (My uterus has never whispered anything to me. It yells and then shanks me with a rusty blade.) Or so the average period-products commercial would have you believe. Which is why I just about lost it after seeing Kotex's newest ad campaign. The first ads were meta-parodies of traditional campaigns for female products, similar to those hilarious Old Spice ads. The more recent ones, which rely on hidden camera, man-on-the-street encounters, indicate that there is plenty of cultural taboo and awkwardness regarding lady bits. In one, a girl stands outside a drugstore and asks random guys to buy tampons for her. In another clip, a guy shops for tampons for his girlfriend, eliciting the all-too-apt response, "It's a man's world" (this time in reference to cardboard applicators.)

Kotex Rorschach test
Lady bits; hole; hoo-hah; down-there...anything but vagina.

Kotex man on the street
(IS SHE TALL?!? Love it. Get that man a cigar.)

As Adweek columnist Barbara Lippert writes with reference to the campaign,

"It's interesting that in our hyper-sexualized, girls-gone-wild culture, where characters on sitcoms like Two and a Half Men joke about "nailing" women and commercials airing during the family hour regularly mention four-hour erections, there's still one backwater of weird prudery: the subject of menstruation and the vaginal healthcare that goes with it.

Who knew that you could talk about vaginas and be funny and not insulting? Now we need even more honesty and directness. Women's bodies and sexuality do not have to be embarrassing or *hidden.* (Or talked about in titillating, colloquial terms for the benefit of men.) Though Kotex is surely motivated by a desire to sell more products, I really like that they're encouraging women like me to become more comfortable with their bodies, especially the magical lady parts. Yay vagina!

What do you think of the Patricia Field and Kotex collaboration? Would pretty pads and honest talk about the vagina help you feel more comfortable about your body, and about that time of the month? Would you consider purchasing Patricia Field's redesigned pads? And am I the only one with issues about the vagina?

Forever 21 lace jacket; thrifted Ann Taylor chambray shirt; thrifted Old Navy striped tee; thrifted Talbots skirt; Miz Mooz wedges; Forever 21 rhinestone bracelet and earrings

New Outfit Post: In which I rationalize my shopping addiction

I have done many, many things to attempt to reduce stress. I spent years in yoga, twisting and contorting my body into unnatural forms and attempting to conquer positions called One Leg King Pigeon (yes, really.) I rode horses, desperately clinging to their backs like a spider monkey scampering up a swaying tree in a rainstorm. For a while, I attempted to teach myself to meditate, counting my breaths while trying to block out all those nagging worries like did I remember to sign my kid's homework binders and those checks really need to be deposited at the bank and I have got to remember to pay the gas bill and gosh, gas is getting so damm expensive and soon I'm going to be forced to ride my bike everywhere and by the way where the hell is my bike?

However, there's really only one thing that helps to reduce stress. And that's shopping. Oh, glorious shopping! As soon as I enter a store a wave of calm washes over me. I inhale the intoxicating scent of suede and leather and exotic perfumes and instantly feel my body relax. All those little stressful thoughts and fears fade away, overcome by the dizzying visual stimuli of leather wedges and printed maxi skirts and softly faded jeans. It's delightful, and mystifying, and never fails to elevate my mood. I wander down the aisles, meticulously examining new merchandise. I spend hours trying on shoes. Sometimes I take a few friends along, and we whittle away an afternoon hunting down the perfect pair of ballet flats. Shopping never fails to bring me out of whatever funk I was in before entering a store.

And, according to a study just out of Taiwan, shopping can actually be good for you. Scientists reported in the Journal of Epidemiology & Community Health that shopping may provide companionship, exercise, and an opportunity to maintain a healthy diet, and concluded that men and women who shop daily may live longer than those who avoid retail therapy.

In the study, researchers led by Dr Yu-Hung Chang of the Institute of Population Health Sciences, Taiwan, studied nearly 2,000 men and women aged 65 and over who lived in their own homes. They found those who shopped regularly lived longer than those who shopped just once a week or less, even after adjusting for factors such as physical limitations and cognitive decline. Those who shopped daily were 27% less likely to die than those who shopped infrequently, with the biggest effect seen in men

"Shopping is often for pleasure, with the potential to increase psychological well-being," they conclude. "Compared to other types of leisure-time physical activity, like formal exercise, which usually requires motivation and sometimes professional instruction, shopping is easier to undertake and maintain."

These finding make perfect sense. Shopping is physical and forces you to be active, though in a much more light-hearted manner than pounding away on a treadmill. It also forces you to be social - I've befriended many a salesgirl when in need of advice regarding a particular garment, and bonded with my friends.

Do you believe shopping is a good form of socialization and exercise? Do you find shopping exhilarating, or is the entire experience excruciating for you? Are you surprised at this study's findings? Discuss!

(As a little celebration for reaching 150 followers this week, I'm having a giveaway to one of my favorite vintage stores this week! This shop is a favorite of Jane Aldridge of Sea of Shoes, and is filled with pristine vintage from Christian Dior, Betsey Johnson, Prada, and Halston. Be sure to stop by and enter - its going to be fabulous.)

Thrifted Fossil dress; Nordstrom Rack necklace; Old Navy leather wedges; Marc Jacobs bag (from a consignment shop!); Betsey Johnson watch; eBay gold turquoise bracelet

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?

Outfit Post: Are you more likely to buy if the model looks like you?

A few months ago I went to fetch my mail and was delighted to find the new Urban Outfitters catalog peering at me from the box. While flipping though it, I spied these incredibly fantastic wood and leather platform booties on a pale-faced auburn-haired model. Despite the boot's obvious heft, she seemed to float weightlessly above the ground while staring wistfully off into the distance. The exaggerated platform accentuated her long legs and gave her a kind of elegant giraffe-like appearance. At five feet almost-four inches, I am magnetically attracted to any article of clothing that has the potential to make me look taller. Clearly, these booties needed to belong to me.

So I bought them. If this model, who so closely resembled me (aside from our considerable age difference) looked elegant and lengthy in those boots, surely I would as well. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered that they did not mystically harness the power to turn me into a gangly long-limbed creature. It's true that the boots are unbelievably comfortable, stylish, and versatile, but in them I'm still, well, me. I still have short legs. I don't have time for wistful staring. And, frankly, I wouldn't know the first thing about modeling, or photographers, or posing for catalogs, despite my best efforts in these blog posts.

While clomping around in my new boots today, I started thinking about a recent study I read about in Glamour Magazine regarding the influence of models on consumer buying patterns. According to the study, women are more likely to make a purchase when they see a model who reflects their age, race, and size. Ben Barry, a Cambridge PhD student, surveyed 3,000 women in the US, UK, and Canada, according to The Guardian UK, and using mock advertisements, found that "the vast majority of women significantly increase purchase intentions when they see a model that reflects their age, size and race. If you speak to consumers on the street about my research, nobody is surprised - consumers are light years ahead of the fashion industry in that they want to see diversity."

He goes on to say, "The industry operates in its own bubble, but advertisers and magazine editors need to be mindful of who their target market is and how the models reflect that market, catch up and change."

Recently, designers and modeling agencies have been making more effort to include diversity, both in size and race, on the runways and in print advertising. During Betsey Johnson's fall 2011 runway show, traditional models shared the runway with Johnson's store employees. They included tattooed and plus-sized store managers, design assistants, knitwear designers, and even the VP of Retail Operations. One was pregnant (she looked adorable, by the way) while the last to to walk, a male store manager names Seth Lefkof, revealed his identity after tossing his wig into the audience.

In addition, modeling agencies are becoming more committed to hiring and finding jobs for plus-sized models. IPM Model Management, a premier plus-size agency located in NYC, is rewriting the rules for the plus-size modeling industry. Currently, the agency represents an impressive group of models from all backgrounds and ethnicities.The agency pairs models with fashion industry leaders like Michael Kors, Calvin Klein, Elena Miro, Lane Bryant, House of Dereon and Ashley Stewart, and also works with magazines such as O Magazine, Essence and Glamour, to name a few.

Raquel Boler, booking editor at Essence magazine, stated that “IPM Model Management is my go-to choice agency when I’m looking for beautiful professional, true-to-size, curvy models." This dynamic plus-size modeling agency has also landed talent contracts in films such as Bewitched, I Am Legend, Knowing and American Gangster. Television appearances are numerous and include: All My Children, The Today show, The View , Good Morning America, Ugly Betty, Mercy, Lipstick Jungle, Sex and the City and more.

What do you make of this recent study? Are you more likely to buy something if the model selling it looks like you? Have you ever decided against an item of clothing because you didn't feel like you could wear it the way the model did? Does the total package impact your purchases?

Thrifted J Crew button-down; Old Navy skirt; Old Navy belt; Old Navy tights; Urban Outfitters 6x6 booties; Frye clutch; Forever 21 rhinestone bracelets

 

Outfit Post: From Russia with love

A little haiku I whipped up describing yesterday morning:

24 degrees

Jet Blue take me to AZ

It's cold as balls here

Today will be the first warm day we've had here in North Dallas in a long, long, long while. Or two weeks. I've spent the majority of the time huddled under down throw blankets, nursing mugs of tea while shivering next to my space heater. I've been cranky, irritable, and melancholy, tearfully reminiscing over memories of warm days...days when I sat outdoors on restaurant patios drinking coffee, people watching, reading my Kindle, and blissfully bathing in sunlight.

However, while getting dressed this morning in yet another outfit based around warm layers, it occurred to me that there's one great thing about winter - dressing for it. I love cold weather clothes. Give me a pair of tall leather boots and a heavy wool coat and I'm a happy girl. I love being cocooned in layers. I love heavy tights. I love chunky knit Scandinavian wool. I love wearing mittens, and soft scarves, and thick sheepskin boots. And I adore cuddling into flannel pajama bottoms at night.

There's something undeniably romantic about winter clothes. Sometimes, when I'm getting dressed on a frigid cold morning like today's, I pretend I'm a Russian princess, or Julie Christie in Doctor Zhivago, about to accompany a dark and swarthy vodka-drinking czar on a horse-drawn sleigh ride into the night. I would wear folkloric wool dresses and wide peasant belts and fur muffs, with an enchanted, faraway look on my face. We'd softly glide to our Byzantine-influenced Kiev flat, where he'd light us a massive fire and read me poetry by Alexandr Pushkin as I nibbled on blintzes with creme fraiche and caviar. It would all be very Eastern European opulence, with crushed velvet and ballet and cigarettes and sable coats. And horses. Horses we will ride bareback. Because that's how they do it in Russia. Or so I've seen on The History Channel.

Temperatures are predicted to reach the seventies here next week, and I'm prepared for a moment of sadness when I trade in my sweaters for lightweight blouses. But just for a moment. Because my spring clothes miss me too.


What's your favorite season to dress for? 

Old Navy cardigan; thrifted Old navy button-down; thrifted Gap wide-leg jeans; Target belt; thrifted Doc Marten oxfords

 

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

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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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

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?

 

 

Play something country

I am a born-and-raised New Yorker. I am a devotee of whitefish salad on a bagel and hot dogs of questionable origin served from carts on the sidewalk. I learned how to drive on the Grand Central Parkway, also known at New York City's Autobahn, and take great pleasure in haughtily informing people that New York City's pizza makes that of other states taste like saltines covered in ketchup. By fourteen I was riding the subway by myself, learning how to cross the street without getting run over by a gypsy cab and had already been pickpocketed twice - a true rite of passage for any New Yorker. I grew up in apartments lacking a washer and dryer, dishwasher, driveway or backyard. I loved the hustle and bustle, the dodging of tourists clogging the sidewalks, the screech of the subway hurling itself through tunnels.

And then I moved to Texas. Living here often feels as if I've been relocated to a foreign country. Texans are a completely different species compared to New Yorkers.  New York City contains a lot of people living in a small space. They have smaller cars and smaller homes. People say everything is bigger in Texas, and that's evident in the lifestyle and personality of Texans. Why own a compact car when you can drive an SUV? Why live in a house when you can own a McMansion? Why own a sleek wardrobe of all-black when you can deck yourself out in jeans emblazoned with rhinestones on the ass, shiny crocodile cowboy boots and hair reaching towards the heavens? Texans fearlessly embrace a bold gesture, whether in the form of a hug, an accent, or a piece of jewelry. As I posess a rather bold personality myself, I am proud to call myself a Texan. I love living here and honestly can't picture myself living in New York ever again. It's a nice place to visit, though.

Yesterday, my husband and I spent the day in Fort Worth, birthplace of big hair and western attire. Here are people who press their jeans, wear overalls to lunch, spend hundreds of dollars on a belt buckle, and wear clothing loudly featuring the Texas flag. Going to Fort Worth provides the perfect education on Texas fashion. Tooled leather, pressed Wranglers, Stetson cowboy hats, and clothing in Longhorn orange or TCU purple are de rigor. I passed store after store selling furniture carved from antlers and custom-made cowboy boots that cost more than my mortgage payment.

I was tempted to break out my own cowboy boots for the trip, but decided on a more subtle approach.


Old Navy cardigan and skirt; J Crew button-down; Gap tights; Justin boots.