Suits and Skirts

Patrick was a Saint, I Ain't

2012-03-12T08:51:00.000-04:00

Luck is with the Irish-Americans and all groups, types, and shapes of peoples who enjoy drinking vehemently and proudly during daylight hours in the great northeast, for here, the celebration for Saint Patrick and his heroics instilling a Catholic institution in Ireland is not one day, rather, three entire weekends. After a generally tumultuous and violent winter, the reward is the almost inappropriate extension of this traditional holiday, a period when the wind still bites but the sun begins to emerge as the community unites in green glory.

This past Saturday, my town organized their annual Saint Patrick Parade, an event that draws nearly 70,000 people to the streets to cheer and gaze on in awe at the hordes of people across this state who have learned how to play the bagpipes, to indulge in corned beef and hoppy libations, and to don some very ridiculous shamrock and leprechaun inspired outfits. The physical march of the parade is down the main street and around the town square, a not impressive distance; however, the number of participating groups was astounding. The filmmaker and I attended for about two hours to watch the parading marvels, then retreated from the cold for a bit to get some sustenance and energy, then headed out and braved the crowds once more to imbibe the appropriate beer. Enjoy a Guinness I certainly did, though, unlike most of the university students and other young adults in my area, I was able to contain my zeal for the occasion and remained comparatively stone sober for the afternoon. Favoring my clear-headed thinking and my steady step aside, I am glad I did, as I was better able to soak in the experience.

Apparently, being the Grand Marshall of this small town parade is a very big ordeal; later that afternoon, while in local pub sipping our beers, the filmmaker and I saw the Grand Marshall enter, much to the delight of every aged man in the crowd. He was adorned, along with his entourage, with a jaunty sash and a top hat.

As some photographs later in my chronology of this event will illustrate, dogs play a fairly prominent role in the frivolities of the parade; these Irish wolf hounds were stunning and majestic specimens. The breed never ceases to amaze me with their size and grand strut.

The first of many, many pipe and drum ensembles; from my untrained ear and unrefined auditory recognition, all groups were seemingly playing the exact same tune, with a loud bagpipe melody and a reverberating drum rhythm. Mostly, I was impressed with the volume of trained players this state boasts, especially among the younger generations; it was refreshing to see so many take a genuine interest in their heritage. Or, perhaps, manage to look regal in a plaid skirt and tall socks despite their disdain for perpetually obeying the ordinances of their parents.

There were fewer Irish dancing troupes than pipe and drum ensembles; their vibrant and stiffly starched triangular dresses were a beautiful and bright sight, though, again, I can imagine the resistance from younger generations to the overly teased and curled pompous hair. My facetious mocking aside, again, it was a pleasure to see people practicing an art could easily be lost in a realm of mechanized, technological delights, practicing this art and allowing it to thrive and propagate.

More bagpipes and more drums, this time, with tall furry caps that evoked my memories of my dear friend Rebecca's monkey hair muff from college; it was a grotesque piece. Never again have I seen a creature that so closely resembles human hair.

Old men in beautiful cream Irish knit sweaters promenaded and carried this large Irish flag; generally, I need my quarters for laundry, and can usually find a use for nickels and dimes, though, at the time, had no loose change on me so did not contribute to their funds. I trust that the aim of all in the crowds was steady and accurate, without the effects of beer causing deviations to the trajectory, because getting clunked in the head over and over again with change cannot be pleasant.

Besides the actual parade, the street was lined with so many peddlers, mostly pushing festive wares that were glittering green, though many also had lots of plastic cartoon character balloons and a general arsenal of crap. I admired their fortitude and, in a sense, the honoring of another type of tradition, inherent in street market and celebrations: trying to make a buck, hawking what can.

Unfortunately, my trip to Dublin last December did not afford me any time to shop for one of these beautiful cream sweaters, much to my dismay; I am still bitter and hurt now. I felt sorely left out.

This group of elderly musicians in their patchwork colored costumes left me quite perplexed, but still impressed at the intricacy of pattern and the highfalutin display of feathers.

A few days prior, while doing some research into the parade, as far as timing and anticipated crowds were concerned, the filmmaker and I stumbled upon an online video from last year, exalting a self-proclaimed thunderous herd of wieners: the South Jersey Dachshund Club. Jokingly, we promised to attend the parade purely to see this spectacle of cylindrical, short-legged dogs, flaunting their hotdog movements with pride and ease.

As a writer and a disciple of the varied texture of the English lexicon, I am not certain that I would use the word "thunderous" to describe the stampede of dachshunds, but it surely was something.

As opposed to the typical and ubiquitous verdant display, I opted for orange to show my unity with the Irish for the day; I paired a sun burnt orange cowl neck sleeveless dress with a light oatmeal cable cord sweater and some plain black leggings. My tall ombre riding boots were ideal with all the standing and maneuvering through swaggering drunkards later in the afternoon.

Large gold and orange dangling earrings to display my cheer for the festive occasion.

I did manage to slip in some green, though rather subtly: my deep emerald bakelite bangles, which complement my leopard cuff very well.

Ideal Spring Morning

2012-03-11T12:38:00.004-04:00

French press coffee decorated with thick and rich milk chocolate in bed with a collection of Virginia Woolf short fiction, to be followed by some basketball and some strolling in the fresh, new air, in the cool heat emissions of the strong sun. This afternoon, to come, warm biscuits and jam.

(image taken from Modern Lit Book Club)

Casual Friday: French Connection

2012-03-10T10:56:00.000-05:00

Strange and contradictory to most of my winter grumblings, I decided to take advantage of the last few days of cold temperatures and wear this thick cowl neck black and white striped sweater from French Connection. Although warm and thick, this sweater is refreshingly not bulky and instead fits to the form and is quite flattering. Paired with a pair of skinny black jeans, the overall effect was casual yet exuded a very sleek elegance; dressing in simple black and white tends to create that atmosphere.

I kept my accessories bold, however, cold and austere, complementing the strict black and white pattern of my sweater.

This vintage bangle always reminds me of something a Grecian goddess born into being during the disco era would wear. Looking upon the inlay of white, a sharp geometric pathway, it now also reminds me a bit of the trail and contorted body created by that very early "snake" computer game.

These impulse purchase shoes, from necessity, back last fall when my boots disemboweled, have actually grown on me a bit; they work well with the shorter, ankle length tight denim.

Saturday morning tea and coffee soundtrack: Le Voyage dans la Lune Air

Paris Fashion Week: Elie Saab Fall 2012

2012-03-09T14:52:00.000-05:00

I am not generally comprehensively moved by an entire collection and its ability to touch not only my personal aesthetic but my professional sensibilities. Every garment in the Elie Saab collection for this coming fall is not only something I admire, but something I would wear, each and every day. The draping, the textures, the luxuriously neutral hues. Unfortunately, such glamorous and exquisite items are not in budget for a mere measly cubicle peon such as myself; it is, perhaps, too delusional for me to even dream. But admire and lust, I shall.

(images taken from Fashionologie)

Outfit for a Thursday: Plum and Navy

2012-03-09T08:07:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was warm, birds and bugs abounding, so I decided to wear a light-weight cotton navy dress with a deeper navy three-quarter sleeve knit sweater over top. Typically, I pair navy with navy or gray tights; while my mother tried to force the concept of nude hosiery onto me as a young girl, the aesthetic never caught. As I generally had knees covered with bruises from soccer or basketball, and, in actuality, am currently rocking a continent-sized bruise on my calf, this was probably for the better. I had a bit of a dilemma yesterday with locating a pair of navy or gray tights in my myriad collection that were clean and did not recently tear or rip during the daily run-arounds and going-ons of my hectic schedule. With my bruised topography being a bit pained, I wanted to wear comfortable flats; something needed to pull together the grayish taupe and the navy. Plum was the perfect solution.

Early morning soundtrack: "Just Another Diamond Day" Vashti Bunyan

Lazy Sunday: Winter Vegetable Stew and Wine

2012-03-08T16:38:00.000-05:00

That now, on a Thursday, I am still ruminating on the beautiful events of Sunday afternoon and evening is certainly very illustrative of the import they represent in my life, as well as the tenuous and delusional relationship I currently have with the passing of time. Lately, I have been pondering back on how much I used to accomplish in a day, marveling at my productivity, and questioning, philosophically and physically, where have my hours gone, how did I spend them.

The past few months, I have been spending my Sunday afternoons predominantly in the company of my family, in the contemporary equivalent of gathering around the hearth: wandering the streets of Brooklyn with my sister, dog and sometimes baby in tow, talking and laughing, sharing a bottle of wine, cooking and dining, and bathing my baby niece, reading aloud to her, tucking her in at night. This Sunday, I prepared for an afternoon of stimulating the budding sensory systems of my infant niece by donning sparkling and patterned layers: underneath a sheer golden sweater was a basic black and cream striped tee shirt. The effect was complete with an over the shoulder, nonchalant placement of a large, also golden and shimmering silk scarf, which has tigers and animal prints stealthily hidden among almost imperceptible stripes. A difficult pattern to capture verbally, but, one that proved alluring and fascinating.

In my collection of, realistically, nearing one hundred earrings, there are very few, if any, that are understated and demure. Thankfully, my physical, not figurative, big head and larger, tall frame can support such grandiose accessories. Coral pink-orange, while not a shade I am compelled to wear in the winter; generally, black or navy will suffice for professional ware. Such a rut can foster a dull attitude, though, so I embrace these earrings wholeheartedly, for their vibrant colorful flair. I believe Winona enjoyed them.

This past Sunday, I read Dinner Time, the exciting pop-up classic by Jan Pienkowski, explaining in brutal, brief, and beautiful simplicity the biological truths of the predator-prey hierarchy. I am not sure Winona fully grasped the nuances of bestial behavior portrayed, but she certainly had lovely wide eyes with each turn of the page, each erection of folded colorful paper, evolving with the turn into a wild and fantastical creature.

My sister prepared a delicious and rustic French meal, inspired by the recipes of Jacques Pépin; naturally, a beaujolais was the choice to accompany our meal.

Our entrée was a slow-cooked and savory winter vegetable stew; carrots, cabbage, potatoes, celery, and parsnips mingled with chunks of salty, fresh ham. Gruyere cheese topped the dish.

To soak up the rich broth, homemade olive oil drench focaccia bread; this recipe is allegedly quite easy, perhaps even fool proof enough for me, but, that shall be ultimately determined once Elizabeth forwards the coveted recipe.

Outfit for a Monday: Wilma Flintstone Meets Joan Holloway

2012-03-06T22:52:00.000-05:00

(image taken from Pencil Skirts and Pearls)

(image taken from Know Your Money)

Much to the dismay of the filmmaker, I rarely draw aesthetic inspiration from cartoon characters, at least not intentionally; secretarial fashion from a bygone era, however, is another story. On Monday, I decided to display a new necklace of multiple strand pearls, a cascading multitude of spherical opaque opulescence in a white cream. The heavy weight appearance of this large piece is reminiscent of the almost primordial decoration of a certain Madame Flintstone. To complement this bodacious beading, I wore a simple yet professionally elegant white wrap blouse, which clasps with a silver intertwining accent. The sweeping gather of fabric accentuates the feminine curves of the gentler sex, exuded more prominently by some, myself included. For the bottom, a larger tessellating houndstooth pattern pencil skirt, which, while certainly fitted, would definitely by put to shame by a certain noticeably luscious Mad Men vixen.

Many of my button-down blouses are a bit too square for my liking, literally, not figuratively; while getting them tailored is the obvious solution, it does not always manage to happen, so, complaining and griping is the next best option. In this case, the embellished wrap front not only highlights the waist and hips of the form, it is softer and less austere than the traditional stiff buttoned up look.

Five strands of pearls is definitely ideal; anything less, I am less willing to entertain. I had been searching for this type of heavy pearl necklace for ages. There always seems to be some similar piece at stores like J. Crew, but they also always seem a bit contrived, a bit expensive for a hackneyed approach. The other weekend in Lambertsville, I found just my wish, for a price that seemed much more reasonable, especially once I discovered the meticulous detailing that truly makes this a unique find.

Darling buttons on the sleeves of my blouse, obscured by the brilliance of white and by the seemingly perpetual juvenile approach of my photography.

I can throw these earrings on with pretty much every article of clothing I own; the precise matching of specific pieces of jewelry is, generally, too much of a harkening to the days when first wave feminism was just plain feminism, but, on occasion, depending on circumstance and environment, I indulge. In this case, wearing white and black, the added ornamentation was not an ordeal. Hopefully, after wave and wave, I can continue to exert any and all freedom with my body and may pair the pearls with pearls.

The clasping hook for my new, to me, pearl necklace features an array of small sparkling rhinestones. This type of acute attention to design is rare these days, from the pantheon of fabricated consumerist glory, led by the likes of J. Crew and Banana Republic, deities of need and exchange to whom I have paid homage, and probably will again. It is these minor details that can make the crusade worthwhile.

Pearls and Rhinestones

2012-03-05T11:39:00.000-05:00

Last week, I had a debut of this camel wool sweater featuring strands of pearl detailing; in terms of textures, I love the interplay of soft, warm wool fabric with the solid translucence of the pearl beading. The sweater has a not completely inappropriate snug fit, which reminds me of young teenage girls from the 1950s, in their wide a-line skirts with prominent poodles paired with the painted on cheerleader cardigans. After a childhood of wearing sweaters, tops, and pants that were generally two or three sizes too large, at the behest of my mother, who was vehemently insistent that I would grow into them, even after I was fifteen and had ceased all major hormonal development spurts, buying something that truly fits my frame to perfection is a joy.

Sushi Saunter

2012-03-03T08:36:00.000-05:00

The other evening, anxious for a temporary exodus from the confines of my cozy apartment, seeking some type of solace in the form of sushi and drink to absolve the stresses of the mundane, I thought I would slip into a sultry black turtleneck dress and celebrate the occasion. Skin tight and suffocating, I should have known as I pulled the as of yet unworn garment over my hips, squeezing, that I would look not unlike a stuffed sausage in a casing. My mirror confirmed my suspicions. Disappointed and depressed though I was, I was not prepared to let an evening go to waste, no matter the size of my waist: I persevered. With loyalty and love, I relied upon an old favorite, a classic, a friend tried and true that would never betray me so: my black skinny jeans that are mostly spandex it seems like, and a mere toss away from being leggings. Pairing them with a simple white cotton blouse that features a cross-over, pseudo-wrap neckline, I was at once comfortable and still felt glamorous. Perhaps it was the copious sparkling rhinestones.

This top is more than a bit sheer; since I am usually justifiably reluctant to exhibit, a camisole is definitely necessary for the additional support and coverage. The almost wrap-like surplice neckline offers a slight twist to this otherwise basic white tee shirt.

A thin black clutch and two of my favorite bracelets instantly add some feminine details to this simple black and white pairing, Truman Capote dinner party style.

I have not been able to remove these boots from my feet lately; they are warm and comfortable and perfect for hiking up the street to a local sushi joint, braving the wilds of suburban sprawl with its accompanying flora and fauna wonders and terrors.

After a long day, just before a cocktail, my body occasionally convulses into such displays of buffoonery and delight; I have not yet deduced whether this helps with maintaining a young and stress-free spirit, scientifically, but it certainly helps me blow off some steam. Goofiness and gin, the fountains of youth.

The Czech Republic

2012-03-01T13:38:00.004-05:00

A poem that I wrote a few years ago was published today by the online faction of a local literary press called The Brooklyner. I have had a few poems published in the past, but this is the first time that my audio reading accompanies the piece; I suppose most people hate the sound of their own voice, when not reverberating through cranial layers, but it is fascinating to think a strange visceral, not to mention intellectual, extension of myself now exists out there for others to enjoy.

(image taken from Back to Classics)

Outfit for a Monday: Pearls and Pleats

2012-02-29T15:07:00.000-05:00

Over the weekend, when the filmmaker and I went to Lambertsville, I found this pearl necklace at one of the local antique shops; lately, pearl costume jewelry has become integral to my daily wardrobe. With such an expanse of cream, camel, and black in my closet, pearls always can be incorporated seamlessly.

For a beautiful and sunny Monday, in transition from winter to spring, cream, gold, and black were the choices; while I am happily anticipating the coming of more sun, though there is not much to thaw this season, I will only begrudgingly relent my tights. This gold glitter-infused black pair of tights have been worn in heavy rotation since procured last December; they do with everything and I can always use an additional sparkle to lift my occasionally work-wounded spirits. The cream sweater, with subtle gold embellishments running around the crest of the shoulder, is a very light weight pima cotton and is, unfortunately, rather sheer, not an optimal quality for an office environment. An arsenal of camisoles are a necessity.

The pearl necklace is actually a myriad helix, textured with tiny spheres, rather than the typical smooth curved space. The weight and the golden basket-like pendant give this piece some intrigue, making it more of a statement than a simple strand of pearls.

Pleats have been quite ubiquitous lately, which is a little surprising, given that they often exude either a juvenile innocence or a matronly dowdiness. The shorter length of this particular skirt definitely lends the feeling of a girl playing in the school yard, however, I feel not shamed; more and more, I learn the importance and the truth of trying to stay young at heart, and even sometimes in mind.

Vintage Salvatore Ferragamo shoes could bring a taste of sophisticated Italian elegance and brilliance to a pair of sweatpants.

Lazy Sunday in Lambertsville

2012-02-28T17:11:00.000-05:00

After spending a few hours allowing my body and mind to wake, slowly and leisurely, the filmmaker and I decided to take an impromptu adventure into Pennsylvania. Lambertsville is a quaint and not altogether sleepy town, where the economy and cultural loci share a particular nexus: antiques and art. Local shops of antiques, vintage, and artisan crafts scatter about a silent railroad track and a bridge to cross a river. Despite the seeming isolation from the bustling urban maelstrom of the New York metropolitan area, Lambertsville boasted an obvious crowd of weekend visitors, presumably drawn by the allures of aforementioned antiques and art.

Our first stop, following paying homage to the exorbitant sacrifices requisite of the parking meter goddesses, a nickel for three minutes to be precise, was a used book shop: Phoenix Books. It seems almost customary that small and delightfully cramped used book shops in small stores, wafting a permeating bouquet of almost-must and binding glue, and thankfully, Lambertsville and Phoenix Books did not disappointment. In one alcove, I found philosophy, linguistics, and poetry; as I often get quite distracted and overwhelmed in these situations, I focused my search energies here. I picked up three absolute gems for about 20$; my reading rate has been depressingly decrepit lately, thanks to perpetually starting at a mind-numbing computer screen whose glow assaults my retina, and further to reading equally mind-numbing tedium for my profession. Perhaps my personal reading life will pick up with these additions.

(image taken from Woodstock Wardrobe)

(image taken from Jane Hayes Consulting)

(image taken from About)

(image taken from She Finds)

(image taken from LA Times)

(image taken from In Style)

The array of Betty Draper image inspiration is not some error splice; after we meandered through a few antique stores, I convinced the filmmaker to jaunt down the main street to a charming vintage clothing shop I had spied on the journey in. Every garment, or nearly every garment, was neons, creams, whites, and navy, with perfectly cinched waists and full skirts, essentially a materialistic fantasy realm for any 1960s housewife, thriving on ennui and powerless unfulfillment. In particular, there was a navy and white wicker handbag that I adored, coveted, but, practicality triumphing, ultimately let alone there on the shelf.

The costume design for Mad Men is obviously ridiculously meticulous and has the luxury of discerning eyes cultivated by the last few decades to preen selections for perfection; I specifically love paying acute attention to the costume jewelry. Antique stores are always resplendent with various baubles and beads from bygone eras; our adventure did lead to some awesome rewards. Though I am trying pinch a penny or two or three, tickle a nickel, for my trip to Paris, I ended up with a few new jewelry acquisitions.

The filmmaker and I agreed that if this lad were not several hundred dollars, and thus quite a comfortable permanent resident here on this antique store wall, he would have accompanied us home; a fine coat rack.

After I had concluded ogling costume jewelry and the fantastic tiny waists on beautiful dresses, we went to dinner, a place called Lilly's on the Canal. The fare was mostly basic contemporary American, with a few nuances, and the soundtrack and decor were quite eclectic, a strange hybrid between bed and breakfast and new age dance club. At some point during the meal, a water hose turned on behind what appeared to be a wall of scalloped aluminum, creating a trickling industrial waterfall effect, simultaneously soothing and hilarious. Small towns can be quite creative.

To start, as we were immediately famished, we had homemade fried tortilla chips with guacamole, salsa, and a bean salad; each chip was large and probably sufficient for a single person appetizer. I devoured a number of them.

The filmmaker likes chicken, a lot; he also likes bacon, a lot, thus ordered this grilled sandwich, but, unfortunately, bacon does not return the congeniality.

Most of the time, I find it hard to turn down a Kobe beef burger, medium rare, garnished with a heavy helping of sharp cheddar cheese and rich bacon. This type of dietary preference may be indicative as to why my wardrobe has been leaning towards the over-sized, some almost old western and others more investment banker, button-down men's shirts. They, if nothing else, are quite forgiving.

I have not had a root beer, a real root beer, in ages; alas, vanilla ice cream could not be procured. I know what my summertime secret dessert is going to be.

This window pane patterned button-down was an appropriate choice; perhaps my ordering the larger than my face burger was inevitable, a beautiful act of fate. Pairing this type of shirt, such a piece of stereotypical casual masculinity, with my carved cameo was an ideal juxtaposition.

Ebony and Ivory

2012-02-27T18:03:00.004-05:00

Being one of those few and far between, at least in this beautiful Union, who indulges in the loneliness of television, as I do, indeed, agree with T.S. Eliot, I did not watch the presentation of the Academy Awards last night. While I will jocularly mock the lavish and superficial nature of these all too frequent ceremonies, I nevertheless relish in the delight of the sartorial successes and shames. This year, there were a number of hackneyed, obviously reminiscent of something else gowns, a number of sequined numbers, some beautiful and some less than impressive, however, few that I found simply remarkably stunning. My two favorite were rather unanimous across the media: Angelina Jolie in Versace velvet and Rooney Mara in Givenchy glamorous glitter. Each was an immaculate nocturne, representing day and night, ivory and ebony, and an almost innumerable list of dichotomous pairs representing light and dark. Rather appropriately, each allowed the dramatic draping of their decadent gowns to remain focal, as opposed to dripping their wrists, clavicles, ear lobes, and the like with borrowed jewels. With women this gorgeous, a risky slit, a plunging neckline, and a pair of red lips are more than sufficient to entice, seduce, and execute.

(images taken from Yahoo)

This and That

2012-02-25T17:47:00.005-05:00

Today has been surprisingly and remarkably productive, despite my feeling more than a bit under the weather the past few days, stalking around like a feeble wizened old woman and sneezing bursts attacking at regular intervals. I awoke at a decent time in the morning, ran one very important errand that had been postponed and delayed these past few months: a visit to my bank, which holds the most inconvenient hours for any professional who works typical business day hours. Following this sweet success, I gorged upon some huevos rancheros for brunch, sated and content. Whomever decided that avocado, black beans, fried eggs, sour cream, tortilla, cheese, and salsa should become a breakfast stable must be rewarded handsomely, or become the namesake for some highway or bridge somewhere. Perusing a local thrift shop, I then found a new wooden wine rack for cheap, which also seamlessly matches some of my other wood shelves. There was also the pathetically triumphant dissembling of my very fake plastic miniature Christmas tree, which, though it has been providing ample cheer and glow these past few months, needed to retire.

In this fury of productivity, a simple and comfortable almost ballet-inspired off the shoulder sweater covered me. Perhaps, in another decade, I could have been that iconic metal welder who moonlights as a provocative but prudent and pragmatic exotic dancer. If only.

Saturday afternoon dusting and dancing soundtrack: Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness: Twilight to Starlight the Smashing Pumpkins

Organization Frustration

2012-02-24T16:24:00.001-05:00

Books scatter across my apartment, coalescing and coagulating like the clumps of dust and fragments of hair that somehow migrate into the apartment from beyond, infiltrating my occasionally permeable isolated world. In some places, the books tower, teetering, like some childhood game where pieces are slowly removed, clutched in sweating palms, then strategically relocated to build ever higher. Not infrequently, I pass over a new pile, discover a title that I had once remembered purchasing, neglected, allowed to crawl bow-legged into some recess of neural space; in a sense, it is a delight, a renewed surprise.

When we were younger, inordinate amounts of time were spent fixated on the deaths and burials of ancient Egyptian kings, stowed for an eternity, or, until a raiding opportunity, to desiccate in an arid tomb of gilded delights and fantasy for the living. Futile for the ones who have passed. In my sepulcher, the gilded items, vases and tapestries and oozings of fine jewels, are replaced with the simple spines of books.

My fantasy: hollowing my walls, emptying them of marshmallow ventilation and collections of antiquities to be expected from such structures of old, build them anew, into a neat array of shelves, complete with a ladder. Naturally, leather and chrome sitting chairs would be included in this delusion.

(images taken from The Pursuit Aesthetic)

Celebrating Grant, Taft, Nixon, Hayes, Polk, and Van Buren

2012-02-23T17:15:00.000-05:00

Three or four years ago, I do not think I would ever believe that one of my most beloved wardrobe staples, both professionally and socially, would become button-down blouses, particularly Oxfords and other traditionally classic striped and gingham numbers. I cannot quite fathom what the negative connotation was, or from where it specifically arose, though if I think back upon certain contextual cues perhaps it was merely a visceral aversion to the idea of mundane, bureaucratic corporate responsibility, which transcended to my aesthetics. Though the aversion, to some extents, persists, alive and well, I have fully embraced the uniform. To give the look a casual feel, I paired it with tight denim and tall ombre riding boots.

For Presidents Day, a federally enforced and superficial national recognition of our former leaders, albeit one that is notably and thankfully more benign than the mourning charades in North Korea over the recently deceased maniacal monster, I wore a new black and white gingham blouse. The occasion was a casual afternoon visit to Brooklyn, for some quality family time with Elizabeth, Winona, David, and the gang of expressive pets. For the past few consecutive weekends, during my visits, Winona has accomplished some impressive milestones for a plump and pretty infant her age: first, the back to belly roll over, second, the complementing belly to back roll over. We were all elated. We also made sure to spend a few moments in silence remembering those lesser memorialized presidents, even Carter; Lincoln and Washington get sufficient face-time, literally (currency) and figuratively.

On a more serious note, after a childhood of the iconic profile of inaugural president, General George Washington, it has been mildly interesting observing the variation in our coins, to commemorate others who have shaped and formed this country.

Monday also marked the first time I read a picture book to my niece, a pastime I have firmly resolved to remain loyal to and to cherish; as a child, many of my most fond memories are those when I was being read to aloud. It was not clear how much she retained from a literary comprehension perspective, but I could tell from her eyes, wide with wonder and innocence, that she was fascinated with the bold colors and shapes. I sound like my mother, but it will be before I know it, blink of an eye, when she can start to sound out the words and then begin to read along with me. Exhilarating, learning the intricacies and the verbal and textual signaling of a language.

Red, black, and white are a classic chromatic trio; since my blouse and jeans were so dark, this bold pop of cherry from my broad bakelite bangle was perfect.

For some added pizazz, I wore these rhinestone and pearl earrings, arranged as though they are a cosmic vortex, perhaps some spiraling galaxy, or, more colloquially, the bird eye view of a bouquet of flowers.

Dalliances in the Kitchen: Roast Chicken

2012-02-22T18:17:00.000-05:00

(image taken from A Writer's Desk)

(image taken from Ale Heads)

On Sunday afternoon, feeling simultaneously domestic and refreshingly rested and refurbished, I decided to embark upon what is generally considered a modest and unassuming kitchen adventure: roasting a chicken. Partially, I wanted to expand my skills and horizons, mostly, I wanted to prepare something actually decent and delicious for my filmmaker, for once. The week before, I had stopped into Brooklyn for a typical visit of cuddling and giggling with my niece and in staying for Sunday dinner, earned a free tutorial from my sister. Despite her culinary and pedagogical expertise, and the relative ease of my task in terms of steps and necessary cooking ambidexterity, I still managed to muck a few things up.

Purchasing the necessary fresh ingredients, preparing the bird for roasting with stuffed thyme and onions and celery, dicing vegetables, and compiling all in a mess of olive oil into my cast iron skillet went off flawlessly. With my oven accurately pre-heated, or so I could only assume, in went the skillet and I had merely to wait those long, long ninety or so minutes. What happened next was a far cry from burning anything, neither chicken nor vegetation flesh; rather, I prematurely removed the entire skillet, began to slice and to serve, and then was questioned by the filmmaker. Indeed, the chicken tasted delicious, however, the chunks of potatoes could have easily just been dug up from the earth that moment, or, could have stood in as stones. They were incredibly hard. I threw the entire ordeal back in the oven and we sipped some red wine as we waited yet another twenty minutes or so. By then, the chicken was still delicious and juicy, perhaps even more so, as we were ravenous and had been cruelly teased with earlier tastes, and the potatoes were edible, though still unpleasantly so.

Crucial lesson learned for next time: remove chicken from skillet, allow to set on the counter and cool for as long as desired, up to an hour, as the skin will retain the heat and the moisture, and then continue cooking the polymer-like sinews and fibers of vegetables until soft.

Outfit for a Tuesday: Pantone 16-1439, or, Caramel

2012-02-21T23:10:00.002-05:00

A number of months ago, my beautiful and effervescent friend Hartley sent me a friendly postcard, a true treasure in this era of electronic messages, terse and cold, which displayed a beautiful, rich caramel tone. Today, peering upon the color and the Pantone numbers pinned by a magnetic up on my refrigerator as I grabbed some milk for my coffee, I decided to use the color for inspiration. Camel continues to be prevalent in popular clothing stores and in many upper echelon designs, though, the added neon flair is also gaining traction; I can appreciate neons, but have difficulty embracing them, personally. I do not feel they are enduring.

This camel bone necklace is one that I love and hold dear, however, often neglect to incorporate enough into my daily wardrobe; lately, I have been loving the effect of exotic and bombastic necklaces paired with simple button-down blouses, underneath the collar. In this case, I paired it with a cream silk blouse and a very comfortable, also warm caramel, cashmere cardigan. The slacks and the shoes, in almost indoctrinated form, matched.

Lusting: Lucite Heels

2012-02-21T16:13:00.000-05:00

(image taken from Debutante Clothing)

(image taken from One Fifth Avenue Princess)

(image taken from Katinka's Blog)

(image taken from Effluvia Magazine)

Over the weekend, I briefly perused a visually alluring fashion editorial spread in New York Magazine over the weekend heralding clear lucite accessories, namely pumps and clutches, as a stalwart for the spring season. With an already impressive collection of lucite bangles and necklaces in my deep arsenal of accessories, a pair of stately, translucent heels or sandals seems the logical decision. The clear heel is not only wonderfully versatile, it is also strangely seductive, reminiscent of the voyeuristic act of peering through clear glass of a window, hopeful of catching a small glimpse of something, a shred of skin, a hint of hair.

Alas, once again, I bemoan my plight: tax season. Despite my hard work and, for the most part, relatively frugal spending habits, I suspect a substantial portion of my money will be stolen away from various departments, in dire straits, perhaps distributed to those important officials deciding exactly how much high-fructose corn syrup should be saturated into the school lunches of the young of this fine nation.

Warm Socks and Cashmere

2012-02-19T17:23:00.005-05:00

Last weekend, I spent a few hours during my Saturday afternoon having my hair professionally cut and blown dry; it was certainly long overdue. While I have been enjoying the shockingly mild winter, with the air crisp and smelling of fire smoke, more akin to that of late autumn than the cruel and turbulent month of February, I have been disappointed at the lack of opportunities to display my warm, thick sweaters and my cozy thigh high socks. Lately, I have been increasingly drawn to men's wardrobes for inspiration: crew neck cashmere, loosely fitted French cuff button-downs, chino slacks, loafers. I have a myriad of old, discarded sweaters gifted me from my father, his days of needing such items for casual days in the office now are over. It is with much restraint that I do not raid his entire closet, as well as that of my sister's husband, for that matter.

This tunic is just long enough to be mostly appropriate when worn with a larger sweater. By the looks of my goofy giggling visage, I am not in a mind to care about propriety.

Cephalopod Lusting: Bronze Octopus Belt

2012-02-19T12:44:00.000-05:00

If I had a few hundred dollars laying around, collecting dust, I would own this and probably wear it every single day. While the extreme invertebrate opulence of this piece is enough to make me swoon, giddy with the thought of the fluidity of camouflage in shape and hue and texture, I can only imagine the sheer weight of the bronze. I am getting my taxes completed and shipped off this week, and I am certain I will owe some unnecessary and exorbitant fee to pay for highway work that never seems to occur and the salaries and benefits of an army of paper pushers, who shuffle back and forth amongst themselves. So, for now, this belt, a dream deferred.

(image taken from Atlantis Dry Goods)

Weekend Lounge

2012-02-18T18:29:00.004-05:00

Ideally, each and every weekend of mine would be spent in the above pose: leaning lazily back on my bed or soft sofa cushions, head barely propped in a diagram of limited energy expenditure so that I can read. While I do love the Wall Street Journal, I do not subscribe, so a novel or collection of poetry of some type could be inserted into my hands, in this fantasy. Alas, this weekend I will be hunched over my computer from work, finishing a presentation, apparently of some importance to some person in some place, that needs to be sent to an editor before submitting to our client team for legal and compliance review. Ever diligent and reliable, I am present to complete the task dutifully, unfortunately.

Saturday evening soundtrack: Young Lions and Old Tigers Dave Brubeck

(image taken from Tomboy Style)

Ralph Lauren and Downton Abbey: Dreams of Noble Decadence

2012-02-17T10:00:00.005-05:00

The Ralph Lauren Fall 2012 Collection embodies the disintegrating decadence of British nobility just before the global catalyst of modernity that was the Great War: tailored and jauntily structured fox hunting garb; sharp hats; luxurious fur shifts and stoles; and intricate beading on slinky full length dresses. In these outfits, riding astride a bay mare or a clean white stallion, flank muscles pulsating, across the gray moore background of an early spring, or sipping bubbling champagne in an opulent sitting room following a heavy sauced dinner is immediately brought to attention. While incorporating organic elements like fur and feathers and men's wear detailing, like pocket watches and riding trousers, are not exactly innovative or daring, when done well, it is beautiful and impeccable.

(images taken from The Sartorialist)

Outfit for a Tuesday: Meticulous and Precise

2012-02-16T17:33:00.005-05:00

Finding French cuff blouses specifically cut and designed for women can sometimes be more of a challenge than I am willing to accept and embark upon. Perhaps I am turning and searching under the wrong proverbial stones; in fact, I am certain that I am, thereby making this entire introductory rant irrelevant. Alas, for all parties involved, I am too tired to conceptualize and construct some other, more appropriate entrance. So, I wish French cuff blouses were more accessible at the various shops that I already frequent, as I am hesitant to expand this network in an attempt to save some funds, particularly for future travel.

For now, I will have to survive with this Ralph Lauren blouse, which certainly can suffice and satisfy; it is perhaps now my favorite wardrobe piece. Silk, deep navy and warm white stripes, and a sartorial mechanism by which I can display these vintage gold and green cuff links make for a blouse that incorporates very crucial personal style elements. For further accent, I added two necklaces originally owned by my grandmother, Meemaw: a gold leaf pendant, which always evokes in my mind the notion of plastinated xylem and phloem, and a pearl necklace that incorporates tiny jade green beads. I have never worn the pearl necklace before the other day, never quite having the clothing pieces suited for it; here, it is the perfect complement for a layered look, reflecting the green of the cuff links, bolstering the overall classic and traditional look.

Thursday evening hiding in the conference room soundtrack: Visions Grimes

Saint Valentine, Revisited

2012-02-15T23:59:00.000-05:00

The filmmaker commences the festivities by preparing me a strong lemon drop cocktail and an array of fatty cured meats, to pair with creamy brie cheese and a whole grain baguette. This sumptuous snack was sufficient to satiate, until the supper began.

Since reading The Glass Menagerie, the play by Tennessee Williams, I have been enamored, symbolically and literally, with the concept of blue roses; indeed, I have adopted this as a pseudonym of sorts. Here, the remaining and salvageable remnants of an attempt by the filmmaker to dye some roses blue himself. He, naturally, was disappointed with the results, but I am certainly glad he shared with me the petals, crumpled and forlorn, popped balloons.

Following the unfortunate dye fop, the filmmaker adroitly constructing a new and everlasting bouquet of red roses, from velvet and some painted dowels, a bit of tissue paper and even some tinted binder clips. I love the result.

Before dinner, he proudly presented me with two beautiful art books, both coincidentally in German, though, one looks suspiciously like Swiss German. Maybe. The first is a collection of Henri Toulouse-Lautrec prints, definitely an old, true favorite aesthetic inspiration. While many of his prints remain incredibly iconic and run rampant in the realm of collective cultural consciousness, this book features some interesting pieces that were previously unfamiliar to me, and which exuded a slightly different, fresh tone.

To my surprise and absolute delight, the second book is a collection of prints from the Japanese artist Hokusai; I was not acutely familiar with his work previously, beyond the image of the treacherous towering wave, but am fascinated by the variety and incredible intricacies of each work.

Exquisite Eyebrows

2012-02-15T18:47:00.003-05:00

The other evening, I watched The Ballad of Jack and Rose, absolutely riveted and engaged. While I could, at some other juncture, expound on the intricacies and intimacies of the father-daughter relationship, the political and environmental and philosophical undertones, alas, I have been sitting in the same position in the same conference room for about eleven hours. So, my only comment will be, superficial yet true, I am in love with Camilla Belle's thick, luxurious eyebrows. Swoon.

(image taken from Fun Also)

Diane von Furstenberg Lusting, or, Matrimony

2012-02-14T18:52:00.000-05:00

My friend and colleague Nicole is planning her wedding, an inherently daunting task made even more beastly and behemoth by the fact that her family resides in South Africa and her fiancé's family lives on the southern coast of California. Her end reward will be two incredible ceremonies, one in California and the second on a bucolic farm in her homeland, however, the journey there, the various challenges and decisions that will either induce tears or a propensity for alcoholism, will be long.

The entire cast of histrionics around selecting bridesmaids, bonding with them, and appointing unto them, sometimes maliciously, their apparel for the big date, seems to evince the most tension, the most tears and the most stiff drinks guzzled. Nicole and I have discussed her ideas around appropriate and attractive bridesmaid attire a number of times over the last few months; we each share the opinion that conventional dresses are ludicrously expensive and absolutely horrifying, confused that the tradition of ugly maidens around a beaming bride seems to be a steadfast and honored one. One of my friends from high school decided to go against the grain: her bridesmaids, all stunning girls with rather different personal tastes, selected their own dresses, with the only instruction being to remain within the chromatic confines of deep navy. The group was probably one of the most attractive bridal parties I had ever seen, physically, but also stylistically: they did not appear to be tousled and teased and heavily lipsticked automatons that came marching from a satin weaving factory. Nicole is also leaning towards this more contemporary strategy, as well as the color navy.

Inspired to do some research, I stumbled across an array of Diane von Furstenberg dresses, beautifully sculpted, ideal for a formal occasion, though not exclusively. While I generally obsess over her patterns, I love her draping as well, and love the simplicity in color and tone here in these examples that allows the structure to be the dominant force. Since I already have a kitchen of wares and other such absolutely necessary appliances, perhaps when I plan my wedding, I will register over at her store in the Meat Packing district.

(images taken from Saks Fifth Avenue)

Saint Valentine

2012-02-14T13:22:00.000-05:00

Today, I am in love with: my beautiful growing niece and her toothless goofy grin, always unabashed and instantly charming; her beautiful mother, my sister, who is eternally supportive and available for a laugh or a cry; my brilliant younger brother who is wickedly sarcastic but also so kind and caring and sensitive; my dear filmmaker, who believes in me and pushes me to conquer fears and anxieties, reminds me that simple and fulfilling happiness is not an impossibility or an uncertainty; my incredible friends who constantly inspire and challenge me; Glenn Gould on piano; Henry Miller and Lydia Davis and Charles Simic; Noam Chomsky, and his doppelganger that wanders around the streets of my town; French cuff blouses and cuff links; Daniel Day-Lewis; Diane von Furstenberg; tailored navy blazers; Louis Armstrong; chocolate covered pretzels, then drenched in toffee bits; roast chickens; and pencil skirts.

(image taken from The Pursuit Aesthetic)

Innovative Solutions

2012-02-13T22:20:00.000-05:00

When, upon receipt of an online purchase, a sweater, which had been advertised and virtually perceived as a navy and cream broad striped knit, there lies in sardonic greeting a midnight color, neither black nor navy: there lies a problem that requires attention. My solution: deep teal and a pair of ombre boots.

French Braid Lusting

2012-02-13T21:00:00.000-05:00

Despite spending the early formative years of my youth untangling knots from the plastic hair of my Barbie dolls, occasionally extracting from the crystalline-like cacophony of hairs a rogue plastic pump, featuring the classic high Barbie arch, or a tooth from the gratuitous purple Barbie comb, I was never able to master the French braid. At the time, I was satisfied with a disheveled ponytail. Now, I look with envy upon other girls, their hair elegantly woven into the iconic structure, and I wish my muscles had the stamina and the memory to learn some new tricks.

Monday evening lazy soundtrack: Tiger's Milk Belle and Sebastian

(image taken from The Pursuit Aesthetic)

The Libertine

2012-02-12T23:59:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday evening, after a rigorous session at the gym, I collapsed into bed, red wine and chicken lo mein in hand, and watched The Libertine, a classic French sex comedy filmed in 1969 and starring Catherine Spaak. As a freshly widowed young woman, Mimi, sorts through the various professional and personal affairs of her deceased husband, she discovers his secret seduction and copulation den, an almost aeronautically sleek lair resplendent with mirrors and other sheen surfaces, a smattering of costumes and phallic artwork. It is here, hidden from his wife, he was able to fulfill his seemingly insatiable sadomasochistic fantasies. Mimi, who had been dulled and mildly annoyed with the inconvenience of the sudden death of her husband, immediately becomes enraged and disheartened: her sole lover chose to indulge in this lifestyle without her. Deciding that female sexuality and sexual experiences must exist in a binary system, where one can be a wife or a mistress, a slightly nuanced conception of the madonna-whore complex, Mimi exerts her energies as a young widow into researching, both theoretically and practically, various sexual perversions, or, behaviors traditionally purported to be perverse by society.

Although nudity abounded in this film, as did explorations into sexual fantasy and fetish, it was refreshingly modest and not at all obscene; Mimi is earnest in her eagerness to discover and to understand her own desires, both physical and emotional, which clearly had not been sufficiently satisfied by her late husband. Without having any veritable authority on the matter, I believe this comedy and others in its genre served as an inspiration for Woody Allen, particularly some of his work addressing sexual dynamics between men and women. I must admit, I found this film to be more charming, more true than any of his films on the matter to which I have been exposed.

Mimi, naturally, reaches a rather expected nadir of regret and disappointment; while she is not shamed or remorseful of any of her decisions or her mates, she is convinced that now, living as a mistress, she is not able to return to the realm of wife. Essentially, she feels alone, unsure of how to go about seeking a connection that is able to touch mind, body, and soul. Various events unfold, not surprisingly, to prove the contrary, as Mimi falls in love and reveals her own specific fetish. Although the ending was in no way remarkably profound, I found it nonetheless poignant, especially given the era, promoting a healthy and progressive view: the fluidity of feminine sexuality and the pure, simple, but often neglected fact that sex should be fun and make both partners happy, secure.

Unfortunately, not only was the quality of the actual film a bit lower than I would have liked, the French was dubbed over with English, an antiquated practice which often leads to dubious translation. Despite this, and beyond the endearing characters and important messaging that remains very relevant today, I enjoyed the film for the absolutely stunning display of late 1960s French Mod fashion. Alas, I was unable to find any images of the beautiful costumes, despite my fastidious scouring, which is a shame. Catherine Spaak had a stunning body and luscious hair, which accompanied the well tailored pieces beautifully. If a bitter widow, rival friendships, violence and role enactment as foreplay, and sexual deviations are not enough to elicit sufficient interest to seek out this hilarious and fuzzy-feeling-inducing film, then impeccable and fascinating clothing may not provide reason either. In this case, there is the true cause for shame and remorse.

(image taken from Catherine Spaak MySpace Fan Club)

Helmut Lang, Gold Sequins, and Jazz

2012-02-11T18:15:00.000-05:00

This turquoise Helmut Lang top is probably one of the more unusual garments that I own, though, that statement is perhaps a bit of a generalization and may be a stretch from the truth. It has a deep front, which is a bizarre hybrid between a v-neck and a scoop neck, a rather inelegant progeny. It also features understated, not prominent shoulder pads, which make me appear as though I perhaps played some rugby at some point. Still, despite these arguably flawed elements in construction, it is, nonetheless, interesting and a beautiful color. Pairing this top with a metallic gold sequin shrug, I in some ways concealed the shoulder pad dilemma, which at moments I am inclined to embrace, awkwardly. Unfortunately, it was only after these photographs were documented that I realized I should pull the bizarre collar up and out from behind the shrug, which allowed all the pieces to fall much more smoothly.

Last night, the filmmaker and I journeyed over to one of our favorite neighborhood joints, a jazz meets Chinese cuisine bar and restaurant called Shanghai Jazz. We sat at the bar and split a few dishes, while enjoying some relaxed music, a duo on the stand-up bass and the piano. Since I live in an area where there are a number of small colleges, bars on the weekend are often crowded with throngs of students, stumbling in stilettos and seeped in cheap perfume and cologne, displaying and flaunting for the opposite sex. A veritable breeding ground. When we find a place that is casual and is frequented by a more sophisticated crowd, it quickly becomes a favorite.

I love this orange patent leather bag; it is the perfect summer purse, but I still cannot help but bring it out and about in the winter. Turquoise, orange, and gold are stunning colors in combination.

After the jazz, sesame chicken, and some cocktails, we sauntered home and sampled this new, at least to us, Japanese beer. The local wine shop, which I visit often, offers not only an excellent array of wines, domestic as well as Old and New Worlds, they also carry a variety of unique brews. This one had a medium caramel hue, a sweet taste that was not overtly saccharine-like, smooth and bold, without being bitter or pungent. Admittedly, I am not a casual beer drinker, however, I enjoy tasting genuinely well crafted beers that are complex in flavor and texture. For only 5$ or so a bottle, I would definitely pick it up again.

Saturday afternoon manchego feast soundtrack: Bird at the Roost Charlie Parker

Little Apartment on a Concrete Prairie: Cream and Dusty Pink

2012-02-10T17:10:00.000-05:00

Last Saturday, the filmmaker and I journeyed to a nearby small town, pioneering to new territory, to explore a consignment shop of strong repute, which I found to be quite disappointing, at least as far as the woman's section was concerned. The selections for gentlemen were the draw there: plethora of freshly dry-cleaned and pressed dress shirts, which had obviously been worn once or twice by the previous investment banking weasels, or, gurus, depending on their internal sensibilities and intentions. After our unsuccessful treasure hunt, with minimal yield, we required sustenance; the temperature had dropped by that point rather significantly, so, Thai curries sounded delicious and warming. Panang curry on a chilly winter afternoon is ideal.

While I am always magnetically lured to the maxi skirt, when I actually wear them, I often second-guess myself; the reality is, they are not traditionally flattering, but with longer legs and a taller frame, they can be worn reasonably well. This particular sheer, layered, dusty pink maxi skirt features an elastic waist band, a crucial characteristic when Thai curry is involved. I found it on discount out at Jeremy's, a discount shop in Berkeley.

We had originally packed a pair of bananas for the road, to maintain our vitals status during the trek to the neighboring town; unfortunately, they remained abandoned in the console of the car. Alas, we did not have any molten chocolate to dip the frozen banana flesh into; once bananas are a bit browned and soft and sweet, I feel like chocolate is the next step. Anyway, tangential aside aside: trying to pose with fruit and my handbag before the lens for the filmmaker was awkward, more so than usual, particularly with the array of discarded junk that resides near the dumpsters near where I park my car in my apartment lot towering prominently in the back. Thankfully, his patience and understanding are both at a maximum threshold.

Admittedly, I was perhaps a bit rash in my harsh judgment of illuminating and highlighting the glory of suede leopard shoes in my previous rant. Though the animalistic inspiration for this pair of shoes is hackneyed and does not involve any of my favorite invertebrates, I still love wearing them.

I wish this cream and camel paisley patterned Marc Jacobs jacket were thicker, so that I could wear it more frequently throughout the winter. Last weekend, it did not serve me very well, in terms of guarding and protecting me from the elements, however, it was a great complement to my simple, cotton tee shirt and my long skirt.

I love this vintage carpet handbag, the texture and the colors and the architecture; it also matches seamlessly, chromatically, with the shades in the skirt, top, and jacket. The juxtaposition of 1960s handbag, salvaged and restored for display and use to this day, still beautiful and loved, one of many that was incidentally saved, with the trashed old aquarium, complete with small pebbles, is still completely amusing.

Moleskines and Red

2012-02-09T18:51:00.001-05:00

Whether it be with academic essays, poems, fiction, comprehensive medical reports or strategy matrices or other documents for work, I have always felt more adept drafting and writing by hand, as opposed to on the keyboard. When I can concentrate on the physical maneuvers and coordination required to write, I can think and draft without distraction; the visceral act becomes synchronized with the neural processes. Since university, I have carried around with me a blank sketchpad, in which I occasionally draw, but mostly scribble down poems, thoughts, captured and stolen moments of overheard conversations or bizarre imagery. I have carried the exact same sketchpad, for years now, slowly filling in the pages; within the next week or so, it will be full, sated, complete.

Part of my resolution for this year is to spend more time writing, something that, to date, I have been marginally competent at accomplishing; the year, though, is young, so, I persevere. Recently, one of my poems was accepted for publication at an online magazine, adjunct to a literary press; I look forward to seeing my piece there, and to the potential of some of my work being read by a broader audience, beyond myself and a handful of close loved ones. When I purchase my new moleskine, or sketchpad, or whatever it may be, I hope that it does not take nearly so long to fill with my words.

(Plum Pretty Sugar Loungerie)

A Napping House

2012-02-09T10:51:00.002-05:00

While I have been enjoying living in the same comfortable apartment these past few years, not moving from unkempt and rickety university apartment to another unkempt and rickety university apartment every nine or so months, I still feel far from living in my own home. Naturally, much of this sentiment is derived from the fundamental relationship of a person renting to their rented location, as compared to actually owning, feeling a sense of entitlement and responsibility. When I first moved in, I brought with me an arsenal of furniture and aesthetic embellishments, some gifted to me from my parents, others gleaned from here and there, a few others promptly purchased soon after my arrival. Somehow, although all my furniture and decor had been pulled together hastily and from a variety of sources, some contemporary, some retro, some a bit kitschy, it appeared as though each piece had been fastidiously selected specifically for the space. Everything coordinated in color, texture, shape, and tone.

Although it is warm and comfortable enough, my bed has always been a bit of a disappointment. I can probably attribute that to my propensity to leave the quilts and blankets strewn across the plane, messy, though I do always take care to ensure my pillowcases are quaint, embroidered, and neat. Ever since I was a very young girl, I have dreamed of a canopy bed; for a time, my fantasy was of those histrionically frilly affairs that one would envision belonging to Marie Antionette, or some equally fantastical fairy tale figure far away in some elusive castle. Now, I long for the simple, rustic design of Scandinavian furniture, exemplified in this charming and luxuriously modest bed from a boutique hotel in Copenhagen. Featuring crisp white linens and simple lines, this bed would assimilate into any room, becoming a focal nexus of comfort and beauty. Here, I love the coupling of the simple linens and streamlined structure with the heavy Oriental tapestry, covering the beautifully herring boned wooden floor. Perfection, and would certainly lend to the mentality of an oasis in the heart of the home.

(image taken from Club Monaco)

Invertebrate Inspiration

2012-02-08T15:00:00.004-05:00

I always chuckle, sometimes to myself, sometimes more overtly, when I read fashion editorials, either in magazines or personal and street style blogs, about the emergence of animal prints as some type of exciting, revelatory, revolutionizing trend, abusing the notion of creative license to report this exclamation as though it were some type of newsworthy event. As far as I have been able to tell, though, admittedly, I am not a formal sartorial scholar, leopard, giraffe, tiger, and zebra prints have been popular and versatile for quite some time. Decades, in fact, when examining how fashion and clothing have been documented; generations, if a broader anthropological scope is employed, including branches upon branches of mitochondrial ancestors who wore actual skins and hides to shelter their own flesh from the elements. The volume that has been written on the recent Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art could fill a room of tomes, and I do not want to contribute further with my superfluous nonsense; however, I will note that I was wildly impressed with his innovative use of organic elements and inspiration, integrating them with technologically advanced production elements, to create vivid and enduring works of art. Beaver quills, spinal cords, armadillo shells, all present and very recognizable in his work, yet re-purposed and re-invented.

As the impending insanity and frivolity that is New York Fashion Week looms, I hope to see some more intelligent use of organic, biologic aesthetics; perhaps, some designers turning to the invertebrates for once. I, for one, have always been drawn to squid and octopus. Their lackadaisical and effortless movement, which flows yet somehow does not lack purpose or direction. Their mysterious brilliance. Their radiant colors and fluid textures. These particular images were captured by a Russian biologist, Alexander Semenov; they are fascinating, and certainly can triumph over the same hackneyed pair of leopard suede boots any day.

(images taken from Colossal)

When Appliances Lack Moderation

2012-02-07T21:23:00.003-05:00

When I first moved into my apartment, my refrigerator featured a rather temperate climate; my eggs, butter, cheeses, meats, fruits, and vegetables could all relax together, basking in the almost balmy breeze of the door swinging opened and closed. Not surprisingly, many of these delicious food items, particularly those of the dairy variety, were quickly retired to the trash. A few dubious electric bills, in which my air conditioning unit was the more likely and conspicuous culprit, and some complaints to my building manager later, I have now, for recent months, have enjoyed a newer machine. The other side was certainly greener, in that various experimental mold cultures could be found on my brie and my manchego, however, I now frequently return home to frozen carrots. Sigh.

(image taken from Mostaza Seed)

Bold Bronze at the Bowery Ballroom

2012-02-06T18:09:00.003-05:00

When I was younger, seemingly eons ago in my high school days, a still buxom and unfortunately slightly more pimpled adolescent, my uniform for a music show was jeans and a black tee shirt of some type. Now, I honestly cannot recall the last time I wore plain denim and a black tee; perhaps that is my blunder, since it is such a comfortable classic. Lately, my favorite comfortable and easy look has been this black and metallic bronze striped tunic, which can function as a dress, if desired, though I have been mostly tossing it over a pair of tight, tight black jeans. For the Cass McCombs show the other week, this tunic was the obvious choice to don, dashing hurriedly from the office to the train station, with little time to contemplate something attractive and fun. To match the metallic bronze fabric, I remembered these incredible curving leaf and rhinestone earrings, which always remind me a bit of some type of strange garden statue. Almost a year ago to this day, they had broken, snapped, the rhinestone embellishment delicately affixed to the rest of the structure; thankfully, the ever handy and crafty filmmaker was able to restore them, good as new.

Late evening at the office soundtrack: "Love Will Tear Us Apart" Tiger Baby (cover of Joy Division)

Lazy Sunday, Redux

2012-02-05T17:39:00.010-05:00

If it were professionally and socially viable, I would probably wear a men's sweater and a pair of black leggings every single day; this style would most likely seriously detriment my waistline, as I would no longer have any physically uncomfortable constraints, signaling me to cease consuming. It could be ultimately worth it, though.

Burnt orange is not normally a color I am drawn to, however, the soft Italian merino wool of this sweater was difficult to resist; lately, earthy tones, from camel to coffee to ochre and mustard have had a greater appeal. It is also wonderfully warm, which, despite the mild winter, is always a welcome attribute. Originally from Brooks Brothers, I found it at a consignment shop a few towns over, very inexpensive and very obviously barely worn. Evidently, the first owner was not attracted to the hue himself.

This lipstick is named something horribly misleading like "Classic Wine"; I was expecting a deeper, purple-tinged red, and it is actually surprisingly coral. Something reminiscent of an aged grandmother, hard butterscotch candy perched on her tongue, hidden behind her orangish painted lips. Still not really sure if I am sold on this tube yet; thankfully, it was a pharmacy find, and will do little harm to my bank account by retiring quietly in my medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

In my idyllic alternate universe, where I can suffice with stretch pants and men's wool sweaters alone, tall boots would probably be my only shoe; the warm caramel leather of this pair complements the rusty orange of my sweater.

Generally, I carry this vintage wicker and lucite handbag in the summer months, matching it with a simple crisp white dress or some white slacks. Again, it was a seamless addition to this brown color palette, so, fun to carry out and about for a quick jaunt.

This is what brunch on Super Bowl Sunday looks like; I am certainly no devotee to American football, but I certainly enjoy celebrating and recognizing all of our national holidays.

Lazy Sunday soundtrack: Early Piano Works Erik Satie, Rehearsing My Choir Fiery Furnaces

Jason Wu for Target

2012-02-05T12:32:00.002-05:00

Today, while the New York metropolitan area is in a frenzy with fervent, unbridled loyalty and hope for the Super Bowl, young women across the country are in an equally rambunctious and blinded craze for the opening of the Jason Wu collection for Target. In a bout of rare luck, I circumvented the ordeal, wandering the loops and aisles of conveniently priced, occasionally useful, many times unnecessary merchandise last night, before the maelstrom, on a mission for a new French press and a new non-stick skillet. I am now resting calmly, safely, in the confines of my own warm bed, sipping coffee with some cream and chocolate syrup, thankful that I did not delay my errand by a day.

While I am certainly very interested in and seduced by the simple aesthetics of the Jason Wu pieces, as with the Missoni for Target collection, I am fairly positive that, once viewing the clothing physically manifested and not flat in the pages of a catalogue, I will be disappointed in the construction or the fabric choice or both. Certainly, less than desirable fabric or fit can still be charming, and if by some odd chance there are items left over that retire to the sales area, they could be worth it; all assumptions here, but I have successfully weaned myself from Target clothing, and on the infrequent occasion that I do return and peruse, I am mostly not satisfied. When adorning a lithely framed model, I want all of these dresses: in a classic, Americana red, white, and navy palette, casual yet well tailored with cinches at the waist and pleated skirts, they are endearing, replete with a childish naivety, difficult to resist. Most likely, I will not succumb; responsible adult that I am, tax season is upon us all, and I would like to start saving more money for travel.

(images taken from Glamour)

Boys Also Wanna Have Fun

2012-02-04T12:49:00.003-05:00

Upon first glance, these could be a pair of vintage earrings; indeed, they resemble a number of different pairs in my vast and varied collection. In fact, they are cufflinks, made of translucent orange Czech cut glass; intricate and dainty, without compromising masculine sensibilities. Sometimes boys get to have all the fun.

(image taken from Exquisite Trimmings)

Outfit for a Wednesday: Monochrome Gray and Violet

2012-02-03T12:45:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, my favorite outfits for the office turn out to stem from an article of clothing that is, indeed, not stereotypically office appropriate. Although originally our dress dogma was ordained to be business casual, the rules on that end have grown a bit lax; while I am usually the most creative in how I bend them, I find them to be quite suppliant and never actually break them. In this case, I wore a plain gray cotton tee shirt, which has a loose, very comfortable fit, but which is also, surprisingly, a flattering shape. I coupled this with a pleated wool gray skirt, of an identical hue.

This skirt gathers a bit around the waist, tying neatly with a tiny bow. Since it is shorter, the fuller, a-line cut of this skirt is not overly voluminous. Since I am tall, with exceedingly long legs, a wonderful trait for which I am eternally grateful, I can carry some volume well, both in terms of fabric and some added winter cushion to my figure, however, naturally, I like appearing stream-lined as well.

Although the tee shirt is the epitome of casual, pairing it with a more tailored piece for the bottom, in the same color, serves to create the illusion of a dress, to create a facade of an outfit more formal.

I kept within the color palette for my accessories: my trusted wide gray lucite bangle, cascading lucite chandelier necklace, and a pair of gray-tinged pearl earrings.

I had purchased these shoes awhile ago, I believe before Christmas, during a Century 21 sale. There were two different colors available: this pewter and a pale peach with copper combination. For whatever reason, I created the false memory that I had instead picked up the peach pair, never verified this by actually peeping into the shoe box in my closet. So, for weeks, they sat, unworn. Finally, I excavated them, happy to discuss that my bout of good judgment had not faltered, I had the pewter pair, a perfect match for this look.

Dark violet tights finished the outfit, for a bit of a bright flair.

Outfit for a Tuesday: Mustard and Houndstooth

2012-02-01T18:26:00.000-05:00

Last week, I paired my new silk mustard crew neck sweater, previously combined with some tight denim and lucite accessories for a casual look, with a large-scale pattern houndstooth wool pencil skirt. Mustard is a natural complement to black and white; though houndstooth is a classic, this one is a bit bold, being larger, so pairing it with a more neutrally inclined hue keeps the overall look clean and chic. In general, the tight silk sweater and the pencil skirt evinced a very retro attitude, so I am happy that the color palette matched accordingly.

This time, in lieu of sparkling clear lucite, I selected gold accessories: my favorite, my trusted, and my only, brazen golden elephant pendant, with the alluring and mesmerizing rhinestone eyes, coupled with some newer, but still vintage, gold and cream earrings.

Procrastinating my commute to the gym soundtrack: "Bahama Soul Stew" Funky Nassau

Swiss Chard Ricotta Pasta

2012-02-01T15:10:00.001-05:00

This winter has been quite mild, pleasantly so, in fact; although this means substantial lack of attention paid to my large down coat and my rabbit fur jacket, I refuse to allow it to impede my embrace and indulgence in delicious comfort foods. After all, I have no vacations planned, for the foreseeable future, and bathing suits are far from my mind. Butter bounty, begin.

This is more of a winter dish, in that it is heavy and hearty, but, if willing to crank up the air conditioning and create a comfortable stove-top cooking environment, and, subsequently, willing to embrace the high electric bill that is likely to ensue, then this can easily be made and devoured in the summer as well. I am not, as I will continually profess, a cook; lately, this fact has become even more apparent as, with travel and work, I have prepared little to nothing. In order to ameliorate this, I am typing out this favorite recipe, praying and demanding to find in it some inspiration for the rest of the season.

Though I typically make this pasta with swiss chard and bell peppers of some color varietal, with the occasional tomato, other vegetables of the chef's discerning choice could easily be substituted; as spring and seasonal farmer's markets are soon to be upon us, some heirloom tomatoes would be a welcome alternative. If swiss chard is found to be unpleasant, perhaps another equally green and leafy vegetable could be substituted.

Ingredients:

head of swiss chard
one red bell pepper
one yellow or orange bell pepper
one large onion, either yellow or sweet, whatever the preference
hot Italian sausage
about 2 cups ricotta cheese, preferably full fat
copiously healthy amounts of butter, for sautéing vegetables
garlic, hot pepper flakes, black pepper, and salt, to taste
Parmesan cheese, for the daring, for the adventurers that care not for the waist

I always begin with a healthy amount of butter, to sauté the peppers and onion; salt and coarse pepper, as well as garlic, preferably fresh but jarred works too, are also incorporated. I also add a dash or two or three or five of crushed red pepper flakes for some added zip. Something that is exceedingly difficult on my tempestuous gas stove: take care to not brown or caramelize the onion or the peppers. It is not, obviously, a travesty if this occurs, but I have found that I prefer firmer vegetables without the sweet, crunchy texture.

The swiss chard leaves, after they are coarsely chopped, will also be sautéed in heavy amounts of butter. At first, this task will appear daunting, however, the leaves do, indeed, quickly cook down. Again, I prefer the crisper taste; I try to not overcook and be left with a soppy, dark green slime mold. For those who enjoy spice, more red pepper flakes can be added.

Italian sausage adds a pleasant, spicy kick. To aid in chopping, I keep my sausages frozen and pull them out just before I am prepared to cook them. I need to use a large butcher knife, but the casing no longer becomes an impeding issue.

Throughout this process, the pot of water should be heating and boiling away to cook the pasta; again, I am an awful and frequently disorganized cook, so, sometimes, I neglect to boil the water while I am preparing other parts of a meal, and then find myself behind when I have to wait, staring, watching, for the pot. This time, I used perciatelli noodles, which I enjoy, though I think penne may be the best option.

In the pasta pot, add the cooked vegetables and the ricotta cheese; mix vigorously. Allowing the ricotta to sit out on the counter for a few moments before this step can help soften the cheese, so that it is easier to incorporate.

If all the creamy ricotta glory is not sufficient, complete the dish with some shredded parmesan.

My longtime and wonderfully dear friend, Diana, is looking for a recipe to make for a potluck. This pasta dish is easy, as evidenced by my capability to prepare it, and makes a heaping amount, so, perfect for sharing.

Impulse Purchase, Again: L’Oréal Colour Riche Balm

2012-01-31T17:24:00.000-05:00

My older sister has always been a veritable, occasionally formidable, influence in my life, one that has been a predominantly positive force. I will admit, at a more nascent time, many years ago, when my powers of logic and deductive reasoning, and by extension, economics, were notably weaker than they are now, Elizabeth negotiated a number of unfair trades, namely, taking my unfinished ice cream cones and promising in return, at future date, packs of gum. Our mother did not allow us to chew gum, so, this was an enticing offer. Needless to say, she owes me a good fifty or so gum packs. I will refrain from making any comments regarding cavity metrics. I must also admit, conversely, that she is the reason, during the reviled and awkward developmental stage, adolescence, I was listening to Depeche Mode and New Order and Stereolab, as opposed to a group of hair gelled, glittered, middle aged men, inappropriately labeled as boys, jive and shake before throngs of sweating, also glittered young girls. And the reason I would simultaneously carry a hand-painted skull and crossbones while wearing a pink lacrosse ribbon in my ponytail, in a true Free to Be You and Me-fashion. And the reason that I precociously understood that, sure, high school can be fun, to an extent, but it is not the climax of life cultural, aesthetic, and social experiences. She is a beautiful woman, and is a big reason that I am the beautiful woman I am, here, today. But I digress.

Last night, the inertia of influence perpetuated, this time in the form of lipstick lusting; over the weekend, Elizabeth introduced me to her latest acquisition: L’Oréal Colour Riche Balm. In between buying some deodorant and some calorie-free sweetener, because I believe we should take everything in moderation, even our carcinogens, I added a plum balm to my cart. After years of excavating fine stain fonts from the caverns of cosmetics, she has converted, to those that are a bit cheaper to procure: the pharmacy selection. I agree wholeheartedly with this decision; most of my favorite lipsticks, those with the most vibrant hue and the optimum texture and consistency, those that are enduring, are those that were under 10$ and were found between aisles of hard candies and greeting cards. Elizabeth collects lipsticks in the way that I collect clip-on earrings; that is, to say, obsessively and compulsively and without restraint. So, when she recommends a brand, I take heed.

Donning lipstick for my cubicle is not an adventure on which I have been willing to embark, at least not yet, so I have no personal experience as of yet with this new tube. I would imagine it will be smooth, bold yet a bit more sheen and sheer, and will become a new staple.

(image taken from Musings of a Muse)

Juan Gatti: Vesalius Heritage

2012-01-30T11:52:00.000-05:00

My dear friend Katherine, a lover and a maker of fine design, introduced me to artist and graphic designer Juan Gatti. With an intense and unwavering fascination of history of medicine and anatomy, of the intersection of the body as biological, procreative vehicle and a work of sculpture, of the topography of internal organ systems, of intricate organization from molecular to organism, an interest in these prints was intuitive and immediate. Since taking a course a number of years ago on early modern British literature and the scientific revolution, I have had a love for Vesalius and his iconic prints: large, god-like men, towering over minute villages, skin and layers of flesh peeled back to reveal the terrain of striated muscle fibers, woven roads of red blood arteries and veins. His vision and acute sense of detail is carried forward by these beautiful works by Gatti.

(image taken from Design Boom)

Casual Friday: Cozy Loose Knit

2012-01-29T16:54:00.000-05:00

My willingness and patience to tolerate synthetic fabrics from Gap products perpetuates, sustains strong, alas; I really need to block all sale communications from their automaton headquarters vortex entirely. Despite the fact that this sweater will most likely pill and congeal the portions of it that are, indeed, wool after a single cycle in the wash, I do really like the pattern of weave, as well as the mixture of colored threads. A midnight navy blue and a black coexist, intertwine intimately and organically, the chimeric product a tapestry, which evinces the tonal subtleties of the true night sky.

With a loose knit featuring tiny, purposeful embellishment holes scattered across the front, I decided to pair the sweater with a basic cotton white button-down blouse, for a classic deep navy and crisp white look. My dark, fitted denim jeans offered a casual respite to complement the comfortable sweater, to combat the austerity of a collar.

I found these gold woven earrings last weekend; they remind me of coils of rope, wrapped and wrapped to organize the slack. The nautical feel with the rope made these the natural choice for my navy and white outfit.

Though this winter has been relatively mild, especially in comparison to the deluge of snow and sleet from last year, I have found that I have been wearing my rubber rain boots, in lieu of my furry snow boots, a fair amount. Trudging through puddles in these sheaths of nearly impenetrable black is much preferable to ruining suede pumps.

Suede pumps such as these; clearly, the traditionally frowned upon navy and black color combination is a new favorite of mine.

Sunday afternoon coffee soundtrack: Power, Lies, and Corruption New Order

Tweed and a Pocket Square

2012-01-27T18:06:00.000-05:00

Were it not Friday late afternoon, or rather, an early evening, I would be cunningly crafting a bemused but mocking tone, emulating the imminent and ever earnest Scott Schuman, illuminating the utter profound and refined simplicity of the minor details. In this case, a uniquely structured tweed jacket, without collar, sweeping in front and fastened tight with a gold button, embellished with a polka dot silk pocket square. Here, I will reveal my secrets, those finer details left to the imagination in other sartorial ponderings: the pocket square is, in fact, merely a scarf, the tweed jacket an item found hidden between others more box-like and squat, amidst rows of donated items at a consignment shop. I love the amalgamation of brown, cream, and black neutrals, reminiscent of an X chromosome deactivation terrain of calico cats; the polka dots are an ultimately unnecessary, but welcome, flourish.

Bare

2012-01-27T13:24:00.000-05:00

Frantically pouring my coffee into my travel mug, clipping on some earrings, searching for my rain boots, I forgot to put on my rings earlier this morning. Everyday, on my left hand, I wore a diamond engagement ring from my great-grandmother, on my middle finger, so as not to confuse, which dates to the early twentieth century and is nearly one hundred years old; on my right hand, ring finger, a large cube shaped ring, which appears to be bakelite, but, indeed, is not. It is a contemporary piece of plastic crap, however, I love the shape and the ivory shade; somehow, it garners more compliments that any legitimately nice pieces of jewelry I own combined. The juxtaposition of materials, age, style, texture, tone, history of these rings fascinates me, and amuses me. I feel naked without them.

(image taken from Shelbelle Tiki Hut)

Cass McCombs at the Bowery Ballroom

2012-01-26T18:23:00.000-05:00

(image taken from What's Protocol)

(image taken from Indie Rock Reviews)

(image taken from Pretty Much Amazing)

Last night, the filmmaker and I enjoyed an evening of incredible live music; one of my favorite songwriters, Cass McCombs, performed at the Bowery Ballroom and peremptorily earned a place in my heart as one of my favorite live shows. The Bowery, despite serving as a lek mating ground for female and male hipsters alike, preening and flaunting their respective desirable ironic traits, and despite exorbitant drink prices, is an ideal venue; it is an intimate space and the acoustics are perfect.

Opening for Cass was a young man named Frank Fairfield, who played a repertoire of late nineteenth century and early twentieth century song book folk classics. Dressed dapper, in a brown tweed suit and a jauntily groomed mustache, he twanged and thrilled upon a fiddle, a banjo, and a guitar, equally adroit in all three stringed mediums, furiously coaxing from their carved wooden bodies fast and sweet rhythms, occasionally whooping with his own mouth. Had there been even the tiniest shred of ironic affectation in this wonderfully nostalgic and talented display, I would have loathed it; thankfully, even his sweat was genuine and endearing. Unfortunately, I did not have cash on hand to purchase an album; I would have loved to buy an appropriately old-fashioned LP. I will certainly be perusing upcoming tours.

Although I have listened and re-listened to his songs for years, I had never actually gazed upon his veritable visage; last night, the band and Cass remained blackened, the stage back lit with a terrain of small yellow lights, allowing the mystery of his person persist, his voice and his guitar to resonate and dominate. Deviating from this recorded work, Mr. McCombs performed some extended versions of his songs, gleaning from the depths of each piece further tapestries of melodic reverberations. I had not been to a live show in some time, and, against the grain, against nature, I swayed to and fro, my body enveloped in slow-washing sound, the audience around me steadfast and grave with awe.

Girls who Like Dresses, who Like Skirts

2012-01-23T17:10:00.000-05:00

Last week, in an effort to pull myself up from the bowels of winter doldrums and combat the black monochrome maelstrom, I sought relief and alliance with some summer staples: a bright, purple and turquoise floral, tea-length dress and a pop of poppy colored sheets of horizontal pleats dress. One of my favorite strategies to pull greater versatility out of certain wardrobe pieces, and in this case, harness the power of their patterns and color, is to wear dresses as skirts; essentially, this is merely mildly more creative layering. Inherent to the dress is a skirt of some type, in one case here fuller and more flowing, in the other more fitted, almost pencil-like; incorporating either a button-down blouse, a thick sweater, or a blazer gives the illusion of a completely different outfit, without any physical alterations or financial expenditures.

Large purple and white flowers, splotched with hints of gray and black, scattered across a turquoise background: the perfect pattern to embrace in an effort to avoid the convenience and the mundane of constant black.

With such a large scale, almost histrionic pattern in the skirt, I selected a simple black wool sweater, which features a slightly embellished neck line, a sort of faux cowl neck with a few buttons that trace the clavicle and shoulder line on the left arm. I rather like the juxtaposition of textures, the illusory soft petals of large exotic flowers, likely on a decadent brink of decay, competing with and complementing the heavy knit of the warm sweater.

With the sweater being a bit loose and over-sized, I added a wide cream leather belt with a golden accented buckle. The dress alone has a fitted bodice, cinching a bit at the waist, before falling voluminously into a fuller skirt. With the sweater, this structure, unfortunately, was a bit obscured; the belt was my attempt to emulate it.

For a final flair, large circular golden quilted earrings.

Thankfully, last week, the ground was still free of ice, slush, other detritus from the perpetually gray sky, so I was able to wear these black leather and suede lace-up pumps.

For my second chunky sweater meets summer dress concoction, I decided to wear this warm weather favorite: a light Calvin Klein simple sheath dress, with a plain scoop neck and a layers of flat horizontal ruffles. I feel like there is a single, perfect word to describe this type of shearing in a fabric, and it continues to elude me; my brain, lately, is a giant sieve for all types of knowledge and secrets I had hoped I would forever savor.

This deep navy sweater actually has a fair amount of black thread woven into the mix, creating the dark color and a great contrast with the bright poppy. I had ordered this sweater online, from Gap, during one of the infamous sales, always touted as events that are exclusive and not to be missed; I was a bit disappointed with the various fabric components of the sweater, but, the touch is soft and natural, and the price was right.

Cream and golden swirl earrings, along with a brassy gold chain-link bracelet, which had once belonged to my grandmother. In December, during a pre-Christmas family trek into Brooklyn to visit with my new baby niece and to celebrate, I went with my brother and parents to the Brooklyn flea market; I found a piece identical to this bracelet, being sold for 175$. If there are any offers out there, I am probably not willing to bargain, but I am always willing to entertain a negotiation and a new argument.

These shoes were exactly what my closet was missing; classic and sensible.

Thigh-Highs

2012-01-23T00:03:00.002-05:00

With the first snow of the winter season, I decided to display these new thigh-high socks; somewhat sultry and predominantly practical, I purchased a pack of three pairs in patriotic red, white, and blue for myself as a Christmas present. As the temperature dips below freezing, even the columns of mercury barely feel like moving; thick knit socks are a perfect couple with furry, rubber-soled boots, to brave the furies of the cold.

Iconography: Etta James

2012-01-22T06:00:00.000-05:00

(image taken from Lipstick Alley)

(image taken from NY Daily News)

(image taken from LA Times)

(image taken from Rolling Stone)

It is always troubling when a beautiful voice and an incredible woman are doused, by inevitable senescence and time, however, she was surely suffering unbearably towards the end. Though she struggled much, particularly with the demons of addiction, she also overcame and achieved much.

White for Winter

2012-01-21T22:35:00.002-05:00

Last night and this morning, the first snow of the season fell; I do not count the inches from Halloween, disregarding the horror as a pure anomaly. Soft, a sprinkling of powdered sugar upon frozen earth, the flakes give the landscape a beauty, cleanse the air. Though this weather no longer means freedom from the tedium of elementary and middle school, or, generally, an afternoon of rushing down steep hills, rolling about a frigid pool of cold swathed in down, I still enjoy the serenity of the first snow. Fitting with the cold, I baked a pan of boxed brownies, which are convenient and, mostly, are less offensive than other tasty treats of immediacy. The oven glowed, warmed my apartment, as I stay cuddled in my bed, wrapped in old cashmere sweaters my father discarded and handed down to me.

This evening, I wrote my first piece of fiction in months; it is rather short, and I am displeased with the result, but generally satisfied with the overall exercise. Combating stagnation will remain my mantra.

(image taken from Rare Vintage)

Browser Shopping and Surprise Bounties

2012-01-19T23:58:00.000-05:00

(image taken from The Guardian)

(image taken from The Prodigal Guide)

Occasionally, when taking a brief pause from my diligent and deliberate work at the office, a mental respite as my body remains, hunched before my laptop in my cubicle, I peruse various online shops. Generally, I am enticed by the frequent and generous online sales of certain tried and true franchises, stores where I not only understand the intimate details of sizing, but also, more importantly, the quality of construction and the propensity to push polyester and other such unspeakably unpleasant synthetic fabrics. As a busy, though typically unimportant, businesswoman, the benefits of convenience associated with shopping online, between teleconferences, during the second coffee break, cannot be denied or argued. The proverbial killing of the multiple birds, hummingbirds, if agile and quick, soaring falcons, if grand and mighty, with the single hurl of a stone. I do not have to travel in my car, risk being pummeled by an errant driver who runs a red light, wanton, without a single regard for another breathing creature, I do not have to tolerate throngs of mall dwellers, gleaning the sale racks, pores oozing cinnamon and grease aftershocks from the deep fried glories of the food court. And, of course, in these days of intermingling consumerist and technological modernity, I am able to reap the reward of the online exclusive sale, with free shipping.

Free shipping. A beautiful, almost divine thing. That is, until the fine print emerges, faded and enigmatic, as though etched in some palimpsest eons ago: seven to nine business days. The excitement of smart, and impulsive, shopping subdues, replaced with something numb, clinical. Nine business days is an eternity, for consumer relying on the calming narcotics of instant gratification. Numbness is then overcome by memory loss. The purchase, the transient monetary transaction, merchandise not yet in hand, out in some place of postal limbo, never happened. And then the beautiful surprise, as most recently happened for me this past Tuesday, when a plain brown box arrives, items waiting to be donned and tested for fitting.

This time I am doubly surprised; one of my sweaters purchased has a predominance of acrylic, though the blend is balanced out by some wool. Bought on sale, a true product of the perpetually stunted economy. Sigh.

Casual Friday: Colonel Mustard and Lucite

2012-01-17T18:12:00.000-05:00

Last Friday, I stumbled upon a unique look, for me, by pairing two very basic pieces: a silk crew neck sweater, in a deep mustard hue, and a pair of dark wash skinny denim. Well versed in dresses and skirts, I often find myself surprised when I actually wear jeans, both at the aesthetic and the comfort outcome. As a particularly endowed young lady in the chest region, I tend to avoid most crew necks, in favor of a more flattering deep v-neck or boat neck; occasionally, however, the allure of a particular color will grasp hold, firmly. Although it did not ultimately photograph well here, predominantly due to my inability to pose my body in an attractive and showcasing fashion, the fitted cut of this sweater was actually quite appropriate and ideal for highlighting the dramatic display of cascading lucite.

Clearly, I am overjoyed with childish glee; these photographs were taken on Friday afternoon, right after the filmmaker and I retrieved my dear friend Elizabeth from the airport. I have not seen her since graduation, so, spending the evening getting caught up over bottles of wine and plates of luxuriously creamy pasta was simply divine. After spending over a year in Haiti, working at a local medical clinic, she has returned to Ithaca to pursue her doctorate in nutrition; I cannot wait to pay a visit to her and the alma mater this spring.

The weekend was quite a whirlwind, between hosting Elizabeth and attending a bon voyage party in Brooklyn for a pair of university friends, uprooting their lives for a new adventure in Hong Kong. I forgot about these images until today, when, ironically, I committed the gauche move of wearing this same sweater within the same week; thankfully, suburban pawns seem ignorant and disinterested by the ridiculous rules prescribed and perpetuated by fashion.

After spending the summer frolicking about Brooklyn, mingling with chain-smoking, vintage polyester clad hipsters, my mother has embraced fully the glories of the skinny jean. Luckily, I, too, have reaped the benefits of this newly cultivated fascination with contemporary trends: new jeans gifted to me for Christmas, which exude a streamlined fit, without resulting in any blood loss or constriction to the ever crucial feet, ankles, and calves.

I could wear these shoes all day, every day; I should save them for when I am withered and aged, and require orthopedic assistance.

With such a plain, though classic and traditional, outfit, in terms of lines and in terms of color combination, a splash of sparkle truly shines: lucite, pearls, and a large rhinestone.

Guilty as Charged, or, Red Carpet Revelry

2012-01-16T18:16:00.002-05:00

I do not watch television, let alone own a television, and my knowledge of various award show nominations is about as deep as my interest in such frivolous, superficial, capitalist affairs. My vehemence could be construed as bitterness or disdain, which is not the case; I love capitalism and being entertained, though, do find the comedy in an entire industrial machine that feigns to be something righteous and beautiful and unconcerned with money.

Despite this blissful ignorance surrounded the purported meat of the Golden Globes, I cannot help but spend the next morning in procrastination, admiring the sartorial works of art, the successes, and wrestling with the catacombs of fabric that some stylist, somewhere, thought was an acceptable idea. This year, a dramatic but classic Versace, donned by an equally dramatic Angelina Jolie, was my favorite.

(image taken from Glamour)

Lazy Sunday

2012-01-16T11:10:00.000-05:00

(image taken from Ivy Style)

(image taken from Boston Herald)

Yesterday afternoon, in true American fashion, the filmmaker and I spent our hours watching football, imbibing some brews and some tequila too, snacking on unhealthy fried foods and chips, and reveling in the festive atmosphere of a local watering hole. Unlike our compatriots, I decided to forgo the expected uniform of a faux jersey from a favored team, pun intended, for a more preppy and classic look: a green and navy plaid, very warm, accented with pearls and red lips. I am usually a bit more inspired by the fashions associated with rugby, the thick rugged shirts, the tartans, the blazers, the scarves, rather than the shaved, painted chests and plastic colorful beads donned by football fanatics, but, as the sports are close cousins, I believe this is acceptable.

The Baltimore Ravens, a cultural stalwart of my hometown, and the New York Giants, the local icons, were both triumphant, making the afternoon a happy success. I am not emotionally invested in professional football, saving my loyalties for college lacrosse and basketball, generally, but it is enjoyable to relax, watch a game or two, and absorb the positive energy from an impassioned crowd.

Unfortunately, a long and lazy Sunday has one painful and bitter pitfall: rising early for work Monday morning. Today, this was an even greater struggle, knowing that many were still in bed, off for the holiday celebrating and venerating Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Already, I have been greeted at work with an old, withered banana, which I had hoped would accompany my yogurt but instead was destined for the trash, and a minute, but noticeable, hole in my cardigan. It will be a long week.

Young Adult

2012-01-15T12:38:00.001-05:00

(image taken from LA Times)

(image taken from Liberta's Film Magazine)

(image taken from Movies Hate You Too)

(image taken from The New York Times, Movie Review Section)

(image taken from Movies About Gladiators)

(image taken from Dork Shelf)

Before the Christmas holiday, the filmmaker and I went out to the movies to see Young Adult; desirous of something more light and comedic, we bypassed the other popular, obvious choice Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Having read nothing about Young Adult prior, knowing only that Charlize Theron starred and that Cody Diablo of Juno fame was behind the inception and creation, I assumed our choice would, indeed, be mostly light and comedic. Instead, we embarked on a bitterly tumultuous emotional trajectory of a woman, no longer young and not quite old enough to have surrendered gracefully and without shame, plummeting to new echelons of pathetic. Though taken by surprise at the gravity of the themes and the subtle, believable anguish exuded by specific characters, I enjoyed the film immensely, to the point of sobbing tears toward the end.

The protagonist, perhaps more appropriately labeled the central character, shifts throughout the narrative in a delusional bubble: from her affected sophisticated and fabulous lifestyle in the big city of Minneapolis, to her dramatic and ill-fated return to her small, quaint hometown a mere few hours away, she displays this feigning confidence, this attitude of superiority at those she has purportedly left behind in her dust, ignorant of her own journey crawling back lowly and slowly to those who abandoned her. She pays a visit to this small, commercial franchise and strip mall laden town to pursue, seduce, secure the one who in her perspective escaped her, the high school boyfriend from over a decade ago, now happily married with a baby daughter. In a rather remarkably unsubtle, overt device, though one that is endearing despite its obvious nature, she has not escaped the young adult emotional realm for which she ghost pens frivolous, hackneyed, and unpopular novels. Watching her brag to other characters about the excitement of living and thriving in an urban bastion, then in a subsequent scene drunkenly scarf down plates of fast-food fried chicken and processed mashed potatoes incited a painful cringe that reverberated back and forth across the spines of the audience. Watching her endure an unplanned, inadvertent reunion with her parents, during which she actually honestly admits to struggling with alcoholism, a statement received with humored scoff and denial and her silence, worry and sympathy sank into the tongues of the audience.

Like so many various characters from my own past, this woman views her high school youth as the life pinnacle of beauty and happiness, her perspective perhaps more than a bit obscured by a failed marriage and divorce, a waning and thankless career in ghost writing. When confronted with the happiness and satisfaction in the life of the man that she knew, essentially, only as a boy, she is confused and hurt and embarrassed; she allows herself to continue to fall so that she will learn. Learn that, in actuality, she has never taken a risk in her life, never ventured into new uncharted territory, as she writes under a fictional name, lives in a small city within an afternoon drive of her disdained small town.

I wept at the end; I did not see a mirror image of myself in this whiskey-binging and over-primping debacle of woman desperately seeking affection and honesty, however, I saw some familiar shadows. I have had conversations with particular friends about those we know, those who chose and embrace uncomplicated lives, those who reside near the familiar nest of our childhood. I recognize the envy. The fear of taking risks. Admittedly, I entered the theater in a particularly downtrodden mood and was vulnerable to the carefully constructed pangs of cinematic truism. Much of this reads rather melodramatically, however, what I believe she also learns at the end is that she may not be too old to remain stagnant, that perhaps there is hope for evolution and opportunity to begin to love herself. A lesson trite, but true.

Flower Power and Court Jesters

2012-01-13T15:56:00.002-05:00

When I was younger, I was enthralled and captivated thumbing through the thick, unwieldy photograph albums of my mother's youth. Some of the images were sepia toned, some yellowed, many contained another small girl who did not look unlike myself, but who lived in a completely different geographic, socioeconomic, and temporal reality, her likeness captured and memorialized in the two-dimensional world before me. Having learned only rudimentary embroidery and sewing skills at that age, chubby fingers far from adroit when maneuvering a thin and unfamiliar needle, I was amazed to discover how many of her outfits my mother had created herself, constructed with her two hands. They were, then, humorous to me, like a costume, and now, older, I look back on them as incredible relics of another time.

The tights adorning the legs of these young high school women of 1969 immediately evoked the playful patterns of stereotypical court jesters, of those Shakespearean clowns who continued to evolve to recognizable cultural paragons. Paired with simple, fitted shift dresses in cream and black, the tights are removed from accessories of ridicule and absurdity, shifted to something beautiful and bold and whimsical. Hair long and free, necklaces long and free, this inspires me to embrace the impending carefree weekend.

(image taken from Retronaut, inspired by Orchid Grey)

Upholstery Upheaval

2012-01-11T21:03:00.000-05:00

When I saw this long silken skirt at Anthropologie a few months ago, when autumn was firmly entrenched, the trees bleeding the familiar colors from outreaching fingers, I was at once attracted to and repulsed by the verisimilitude to an abandoned loveseat from an old abandoned grandmother's basement. Perusing the sale rack with conviction, I saw the skirt, admired the pattern and its resemblance to vintage carpet handbags that frequent the dusty corners of antique shops, then thought, lip upturning incredulously, oh, the pattern looks like a vintage carpet. Ultimately, bizarre lusting and a desire to capriciously purchase some items to feed my consumer nature prevailed, and the skirt now sits in my closet.

I still oscillate between loving and hating this pattern, though, more often than not fall on the tract of contented and approving affection. What has surprised me most, more so than my finding a place for this piece in my full and varied wardrobe, is the variety of items that I already owned which match and complement this skirt perfectly.

My dark teal opaque tights mirror the petal color in the skirt nearly identically, almost too well to be calculated. Because of the long length, which has a definite potential to be awkward and stunting if styling goes awry, I wear heels. I like the pairing with these tall, almost knee-high caramel leather boots, which also match the coloring beautifully; with the proportions, the teal peeps out only barely from a thin slit between textures, at my kneecaps.

A wool cowl neck sweater in a deep plum, which is snugly but comfortably fitted with three-quarter sleeves, has also proven to be a great mate for this seemingly strange skirt. The cut of the sweater has a retro feel, reminding me very much of peppy and puritanical cheerleaders from the 1960s, innocently flaunting their skin tight sweaters. This is not quite skin tight, however, the more fitted look balances the bulk around the collar well for a more flattering, enhancing top.

Perhaps the trick is simply that this skirt has a complete spectrum of colors, in an autumnal tone.

It had been awhile since I had worn my bakelite and my cow horn bangle; I love pairing my green bakelite with crisp, clean white in the summer, but also wear it frequently with all black. Identifying tops or skirts or dresses that chromatically mimic the recognizable opacity and hue of original bakelite is tough, but behold, I have succeeded.

Wednesday evening procrastination soundtrack: House of Balloons The Weeknd

Outfit for a Monday: Maintaining the Mundane

2012-01-10T01:09:00.000-05:00

It appears that my uninspired forays with black and neutrals from last week have bleed into the beginning of this work week as well. Bleary-eyed and longing for a bucolic manorial lifestyle, even with the aristocratic and plebeian divide from watching too many hours of Downton Abbey on Sunday afternoon and evening, Monday morning I could barely rise, let alone construct something creative. So, a basic classic approach to business casual once again proved useful and effective: a black and ivory striped silk blouse, worn with a light camel cable sweater over top.

My lackluster approach to dress lately, bland colors, typical clean lines, almost trite, really, cause me to wonder if there is any parallel with my reluctance to write lately. Despite a series of rather contrived resolutions for the new year, I find that certain dull and practical and sensible neurons, neurons that do not fire, but rather merely chug and crank in a mechanical sense, seem to have metastasized to the others. Ones of passion, of reckless abandon. I must continue to endeavor, to strive; writing this is not shameful, but almost uplifting. Surrender I will not.

Friday Fivolities in Purple, Steel, and Teal

2012-01-08T16:47:00.000-05:00

Friday evening began innocently enough, as I took my hair down, literally and metaphorically, from the ragged top-knot bun that I had quickly constructed early in the morning and from the stresses of some new projects at the office. Seeing the cascading mane, a wash of brunette and auburn and blonde madness, I could not help but continue to tease and tease until the effect was sufficiently wild and ludicrous. Naturally, my selected soundtrack of ridiculous, though at times almost poetic and profound, of current popular hits, motif of trashy and sexy, inspired even more rigorous hair sculpting and make-up application. I was accompanied by a hastily prepared Tom Collins, which I then realized in a lucid moment was essentially just gin and juice, of the lemon variety, and the filmmaker's adept camera skills.

A series of portraits were taken, at various points along the exuberant dressing and preparation continuum, by my dear filmmaker. I admired his acrobatics, as he was mostly standing upon the ledge of the bathtub while snapping away. As usual, I appear more forlorn and distant than I actually was; such melancholy certainly did not mirror the thumping beats of bad pop music blaring in the background.

My Tom Collins glass doubled quite elegantly as a microphone.

After wearing all black during the week to work, I decided to explore some other areas of the chromatic spectrum, choosing a deep purple kimono-like silk shirt, a steel gray ruched dress that I wore as a skirt, and my teal tights. While a bit bold, perhaps, each of these colors had a jewel tonality, so they assimilated quite well with one another, while maintaining a certain exclamatory statement.

This dress is incredible fitted, which works well with an hourglass figure, and is one of the most flattering and seductive outfits I own; it seemed a bit much, on its own, for grabbing a casual drink, so I throw the purple top over it. This top has wide, sweeping sleeves and ties off the hip; unfortunately, it is completely obscured in all of the images that the filmmaker took, but I actually accented the bow with a vintage rhinestone shoe clip. I have owned the shoe clip for years, never quite knowing what to do with it; recently, I have started affixing it to random bows, on skirts and blouses, or on large bulky sweaters, and discovered it works to pair with nearly anything.

Matching my clutch and my eyeliner was not intentional, and was at first quite bothersome, as I imagine there is some arcane rule somewhere about not doing that; ultimately, obviously, I cared less.

Sunday afternoon laziness soundtrack: Tomboy Panda Bear

Casual Friday: Continuation of Nocturnes in Black

2012-01-06T19:00:00.000-05:00

I finished my week of wearing black monochromatic ensembles, completely unintentionally, quite strong, with this black a-line cotton skirt from American Apparel paired with the cream and black striped cotton tee shirt from Zara. Zara is constantly splattered across street style and fashion blogs, looking charming and magnificent, however, every single time I have entered a store, I am disgusted with the rampant display of cheap, synthetic fabrics for wildly inflated prices. While out in San Francisco in November, I found two of these boat neck cut shirts for a very reasonable price and was delighted to discover they were woven from something that, at least at one point, had existed beneath the earth and had sprouted forth in natural form. With its fitted waistband, the skirt couples with the shirt to give the illusion of a single piece, a dress, which I like, especially when wearing something like this to the office.

Along with the cognac and black leather shoes with the kitten heel, I found this cream leather belt over the weekend while consignment exploring with the filmmaker. I have another cream leather belt, which I adore, however, the medallion-like buckle can be a bit over the top, depending on the occasion. I believe this basic gold accented cream belt will become a closet staple, especially if it fits through some of my denim, as I suspect it will, as long as it is not too wide.

These black suede peep-toe heels are probably the most comfortable shoes I own; I have meandered around less than graciously, also known as stumbling, the streets of Brooklyn and Manhattan enough to be confident in this assertion. With the open toe, I love the look of a bold tight, in this case, metallic gold and black patterned.

My tried and true golden rose earrings, and lucite encased barbed wire bangle, two accessories of which I will never tire; worth every penny.

Friday evening gin and juice dance soundtrack: Eye Contact Gang Gang Dance

(Another) Portrait of a Lady

2012-01-06T16:41:00.000-05:00

Never mind that the title of this Harper's Bazaar editorial is a frequent, potentially now trite, allusion, now far removed from the Henry James novel, an author the public probably cannot recall, if not for high school advanced English courses, an allusion recently used to title the Wall Street Journal Magazine fashion editorial that inspired my brooch necklace, among countless others. Also, never mind that this fashion editorial concept of emulating beautifully recognizable works of art with fashion and a model was possibly first conceived and manifest during an episode of America's Next Top Model, hosted by the crazed and maniacal but always charmingly effervescent Tyra Banks, and probably not from the first or even second season, but a mediocre, contrived fifth season. Also, never mind that I do not care for Julianne Moore, though, I have fancied a handful of films in which she played a role.

This hand-painted haute couture Christian Dior gown is divine, from the architecture of the draping, to the illustrious detailing of the bizarrely, incongruent pattern. Whatever else hackneyed tactics therein, be damned, this design is genius.

(image taken from Harper's Bazaar)

Warm Cognac as an Accent Color

2012-01-05T23:59:00.000-05:00

For the past three consecutive days in the office, I have wrapped myself in thick black clothing from head to foot, complete monochrome; needless to say, I am in a sort of rut, despite the rest and relaxation from Christmas break and the purported infusion of new energy and inspiration that rolls forward with the new year. On Wednesday, these two-toned shoes were the only offering of respite from the dark pit of black, black, and more black. While I would, and can, blame the bitterly cold weather, finally emerging, blanketing all in shivers and down sleeping bag-styled coats, the famed puffy, that is certainly the easy and trite route of justification and explanation. Perhaps, no less true, and even more simply, it has been mere boredom.

I found these gems at a large consignment depot at a town a hop and a short skip away; it is one of those places that definitely lacks ambiance and definitely caters to a crowd, to put it politely, that is generally not engaging with the street style, fashion, art, culture realm. So, with little competition, all the more reason to explore and reap all the wonderful wares. Warm chocolate browns, honey-tinted cognac, and the like, when coupled with black, used to be synonymous with fratricide and bestiality, and other such condemnable taboos, when I was younger and more concerned with paltry things like rules and the collective consciousness of the masses. Now, a more liberated, albeit temporarily less inspired, woman, I wear brown and black, and really any neutral pairing, wantonly.

Landline Lusting, or, Glass Ceilings

2012-01-05T17:16:00.001-05:00

(image taken from Wall Fizz)

(image taken from Pilgrim Congress)

Lately, I have been harboring a not completely unwarranted obsession with 1990s culture and technology; mostly, being in the currently pervasive cacophonous cocoon of constant connectivity, I relish and long for a time of landlines. A time when loyalty and adherence to dates and appointments reigned, when flakiness would not be tolerated and was not engendered. A time, a society, when and where relinquishing your telephone number to a worthy adversary had truly significant meaning. A person could dial a number, receive either a busy tone, or an answering machine message, and would surrender, assuming that the intended recipient party is simply not available and would return the oral correspondence at a later date. Having fallen victim to a constant bombardment of emails and client nagging telephone

This obsession with the ability to become, if desired, a desert island has been manifesting in an indulgence in 1990s film and television. Mostly, late night watching of romantic comedies, which may or may not star Jennifer Aniston and her flowing hair. An embarrassing admission: watching the occasional episode of Ally McBeal has also occurred. Netflix streaming television has enabled a myriad of embarrassing viewing choices, which, otherwise, would have been impossible, rather implausible, or would have required a research and downloading activation energy catalyst, which is a barrier that I am unwilling to surmount. Shameful foibles such as watching Ally McBeal occur because of Netflix; I strip myself of all accountability and responsibility. I almost covered the pile of books, art, philosophy, poetry, sitting on my bedside table, waiting to be read, to shield them from the utter intellectual vapidity and horror.

Thankfully, my affair with Ally McBeal, unlike that of my tender pinings for landlines, has proven very short lived. This has been predominantly due to the absurdly and ludicrously poor tailoring of the suits worn by the fictional female characters, though, weak narrative and obnoxious, stagnant characters did not help.

There are a number of industries, office settings, and professional realms where a little thigh can be tasteful, beautiful, empowering. I hate to sound arcane and like a sartorial teetotaler, like some withered grandmother that is neither coherent nor relevant, at least in the forum of popular culture, but, honestly, high-powered, respected lawyers do not wear mini skirts. While, on the one hand, breaking through the glass ceiling with a stiletto heel can prove a certain point, the shattering should occur regardless, with an acute analytical mind, a willingness and a prowess in taking risks, with eloquence, with intelligence and spirit.

Speculation on Spectacles

2012-01-04T16:59:00.002-05:00

It is a simultaneously thrilling and pathetic realization when you become verily cognizant of the slow and inevitable deterioration of your own eyesight; thrilling, in that certain daily, mundane tasks grow potentially dangerous, for example, the commute to work, and pathetic, in that your commute to work can somehow be construed as thrilling. I am, naturally, speaking in jest; my commute is only of interest when I happen upon a new or unfamiliar artist on the famed Newark jazz station, or occasionally an archived interview with an author or poet on the equally famed Columbia University station. While many a car crash have been artfully averted during my daily commute, my mere five miles of daily driving to and from the office, these risks can be attributed to the vapid and selfish worldviews of the drivers around me, their obsessive clinging to technical devices with frenetic phalanges, their refusal to observe simple and rational traffic laws, not to my own failing retina. It is at this point, finally, that I have truly grown to appreciate the many lessons and lectures given to me on defensive driving from my father. I owe him my life, many times over.

I digress; my eyes weaken, and, alas, the 2007 to 2008 grueling presidential campaign that hurled and thrust the feminine and political monstrosity that is Sarah Palin among our society has rendered my current eyeglass style disdainful and revolting. Invisible, subtle frames, popularized and then sodomized, have been replaced with the equally ubiquitous and possibly equally embarrassing bombastic hipster frames. The choice of sharing a semblance with a crude and laughable and fame-hungry political figure or a crude and laughable and fame-hungry, unemployed, could-be-should-be artist is perhaps a toss up.

Cat eye frames, reminiscent of those worn by the lovely, iconic, fame-hungry turned fame-averse Marilyn in her rendition of a modest and shamed four-eyed bombshell in How to Marry a Millionaire may, then, be my only remaining resort. With a large, oval-shaped face, I think I can rock them.

(image taken from Culture of Cute)

Indeterminacy

2012-01-03T16:55:00.001-05:00

In the evening on New Year's Day, the filmmaker and I, joined by one of his longtime friends, sauntered over to Cornelia Street Cafe in the West Village to attend a live performance of "Indeterminacy," by the epitome of modern Renaissance man and genius, John Cage. An intersection of performance art, music, and literature, I entered the low, narrow basement of the classically styled New York cafe excited for the show, unaware of what exactly to expect: ninety short stories, prose poems, depending upon literary credence and taxonomy, penned by Cage, which were each read aloud within a sixty second time frame, no matter their length. A delightful surprise, renowned John Cage interpreter and scholar Margaret Leng Tan accompanied the four oral performers, playing snippets on the piano and with various percussive instruments throughout the readings. I was riveted for the entirety of the show.

By constructing a very specific, defined, uniformed space in which these pieces all must be read, set at sixty seconds, Cage has created a three-dimensional realm, a performance where the sounds, the connotive and denotive qualities of the text, and the temporal topography of pacing are all present and interacting with one another. The very voices, and tempo choices, of the individual performers is unique to each presentation of "Indeterminacy"; I would imagine seeing it performed yet again, if I am ever so priveleged, would be as fascinating and new as the first round.

Having only an admittedly cursory familiarity with Cage's work as composer, and being a constant student of literature, a writer myself, I was intrigued to hear his written works. While I am now much interested in reading more of his prose poems, I am thankful my introduction to them was through an oral presentation; hearing the words fill the not quite empty cavern basement, mingling with the chewing mandibles of nearby audience members, slopping down their plates of pâté and slurping their red wines, with the low purring and strumming of a cash register, of the ghostly aftermath of silent microphones. It seemed quite apt. His words, like the event itself, were at once poignant, beautiful, and utterly mundane, occasionally hilarious, and often bitter sweeteningly sad, as much of my favorite writing, and particularly poetry, is. Later in the month, the filmmaker's dear friend, a trained opera singer, will be performing in a John Cage concert series at Julliard, a celebration of this year, his one-hundredth birthday anniversary; I cannot wait.

(image taken from Amoeba)

Bodacious Brooch, or, Fantastic Fibula

2012-01-02T18:25:00.001-05:00

(image taken from Anne of Carversville)

After seeing this fashion editorial in the Wall Street Journal Magazine featuring magnificently elegant and sophisticated and quite accomplished older women dripping with luxurious, resplendent jewels, I first lamented not owning such an extensive and impressive collection myself, then, once over my delusions of grandeur, I remembered some of my larger and more ostentatious costume rhinestone pieces. Frequently, large and sparkling jewelry seems to make too much of a statement for the daytime, a long and fevered, bloody battle cry of a statement sometimes, causing a brief moment of hesitation, though, ultimately, I choose not to shy away. This editorial gave me much relief and encouragement; as I age, I hope I continue to display such boldness unabashedly. With the bright freshness of a new year, I am embracing my tried and true sparkles.

Black and this golden ochre are one of my favorite color combinations; with the pleats in this short silken skirt and the ribs in the turtleneck, the fabrics add textures to the look. I tend to forget about turtlenecks, but come January with the bitter cold, I definitely want my neck covered.

I have had this brooch in my collection for years, since high school; it was a gift from my mother from a small local antiques market. Perusing many different antiques markets over the many years, as well as many different vintage clothing shops and various consignment joints, I have seen armies of costume jewelry pieces, and this brooch maintains its unique shape and size. Typically, I would wear this fastened to the lapel of a blazer, occasionally a thick knit sweater; more recently, I learned it could become more versatile as a necklace. Here, I thread two different length strands of pearls, creating a large, almost chest plate-like look.

A bow in the back, for good measure.

My mother and I found this 1940s vintage black patent leather handbag at a large antiques mall in Pennsylvania; after the purchase and transporting the bounty home, my father immediately made a joke about the ability to discreetly carry a rather large handgun, should I so choose. Generally, there is mostly excess jewelry, my wallet, various cases of extraneous eye shadow and tubes of chapstick within its belly, but, good to know that if I ever move to Detroit, I can pack heat in secret.

Faux Victorian-era lace up heels of leather and suede, perfect for a jaunt about the town in the sun and some frantic grocery shopping. Going to the grocery store the day before work again commences after a long holiday was a foolish decision.

The long, segmented legs of this brooch remind me of an underwater insect, perhaps crossed with some strange and spindly starfish. Using the pearl necklaces to create a pendant was a great idea for a large and quite heavy brooch, such as this one, since I am usually apprehensive that it will tear or rip thinner fabric, or just cause a blouse or sweater to pucker.

Decadence on a Dime: Discount Elie Tahari

2011-12-30T18:29:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, I found an incredible teal silk Elie Tahari dress, new, for 35$ at a local consignment shop; personal birthday present. I can pair it perfectly with a suit jacket, or be worn alone with gold accents. Purchasing dresses definitely becomes justified when they are versatile professionally and personally.

(image taken from La Bellush)

Styling for Baby

2011-12-30T13:34:00.000-05:00

This year, with Winona still being so young and small, my sister Elizabeth and the family were not able to travel south to Baltimore to celebrate Christmas, so, my parents, brother, and I spent the weekend before Christmas in New York. Winona is still too neurally and cognitively fresh to completely remember that her limbs can move in all sorts of directions, let alone comprehend the fantastical and well orchestrated concept of a jolly, fat man who gives all good children presents. Needless to say, she did not mind that we opened all of her presents for her, before veritable Christmas Day.

Being so young and so adorable, with little opportunity to get herself into too much trouble, naturally, I spoiled baby Winnie for being such a good girl. Thankfully, I do not have major school loans or credit card debt, however, after stepping foot in the baby and infant departments of some major stores, I have immediately realized how slippery the slope could potentially be. Everything is tiny and charming and relatively reasonably priced, until you have arms stuffed with clothing and socks and small shoes that probably amasses to thousands of dollars. Choices must be made, items gleaned and edited; I think I bought some great pieces, and I know Elizabeth and David were quite pleased with the results.

Egg nog cocktails are essentially adult milk, so, in honor of Winona as well as the season, we all imbibed.

With sheer glee, the sharp, acute anticipation from the earlier years of childhood once again surfacing to the pads of her fingers, Elizabeth tore open the beautifully wrapped presents. Important to note, the filmmaker applied his delicate skills to actually wrapping the presents, for which I am eternally grateful; he constantly mocks me for being able to impeccable fold clothes, but totally inept at folding paper neatly.

Tiny Santa Claus foot slippers on red pants, a little red and white striped onesie top; Winona looks beyond darling in this. I hope it is not considered too passé in January.

In the spring, once Winona gains some weight and length, this red and plaid Scottie dog jumper will be perfect.

A light weight polka dot and floral sleeper for the warmer months later in spring.

Six month size white baby onesies, an absolute dire necessity.

Already, Winnie owns a bunch of onesies featuring monkeys; they are a particular favorite motif for our family.

Elizabeth certainly does love baby girl.

For a normal, full grown adult, socks are one of the most boring, uninspired presents; for tiny babies, socks are just delicious.

Hippity, hoppity, bouncing frogs.

Celebrating a Quarter Century

2011-12-28T23:59:00.000-05:00

Yesterday for my birthday, I went out to lunch with a group of wonderful and dear friends from high school, to a local restaurant that caters to a, generally, more mature and established crowd; naturally, the bartenders there know how to construct a real martini. Since one really only turns 25 years young once, I indulged.

My friends and I are scattered across this country, and across a few other continents, some of us working, some of us still in school; it is a comforting and beautiful thing to be able to get together for some good eats and some good laughs with people who have known me for years, as though nothing has really changed all that much.

A secret surprise birthday dessert, featuring very berry sherbert and a tiny wax candle; darling.

My lovely friend Diana knows me inside and out: she was so generous, gifting me this Barbie calendar, featuring runway caliber clothing designs. A number of them I wish lived in my own closet, supremely elegant in draping and fabric choice. This gift definitely made me very excited for when I can finally buy Barbie dolls for my niece.

Phinneas, the cat, for reasons beyond comprehension within his anatomically inferior brain, was magnetically drawn to my leopard patterned wedges, unable to deny the primal call of his ancestry.

A fine and cozy tableau for a family dinner, following my martini and burger lunch with friends.

Viognier proved to be the ideal wine choice for our meal of crab cakes, potato wedges, and green beans; crisp and acidic, with a touch of sweet fruit, a great complement to the buttery texture of the crab meat.

Obviously, cocktail sauce was involved.

Eating a Maryland crab cake outside of the hallowed state borders of the Land of Pleasant Living is, well, simply, a grave and terrible mistake.

Birthday Musings and Reflections

2011-12-27T23:59:00.000-05:00

Today is my birthday; I have now been living, for the most part conscious, for a quarter of a century. Due to its potentially unfortunate proximity with the New Year, my birthday has always been a time of intense contemplation. Reflecting upon past events of the recent year and projecting, aspiring, inquiring unto the potential new events of the new year. Now, in particular, having attained the respect of a certain age, that prospect of looking forward, reflecting back, becomes especially exhausting and overwhelming. Being innately, preternaturally introspective, this process is an involved one.

A few months ago, I applied to a position at a, perhaps the, prominent corporate reputation management and strategy firm. Part of the application, I was required to answer a series of questions, within a specific and narrow time frame; miniature essays, to gauge writing skills, construction of a coherent argument, celerity in response. The first few, I read, I responded, immediately, thinking and crafting an intelligent, creative response in quick moments. Though nervous, cognizant that the fruits of my accelerated mental labor would ultimately be judged and dissected, I was confident.

Then I read the final question: describe a time when, either professionally or personally, you were proud of yourself. Fingers poised at my keyboard, prepared to type furiously and eloquently, I froze, spine stiff and hard and ready to snap like the quivering leg of a cockroach in a kitchen. I could think of nothing, not a single response. Eventually, I developed some type of tale, which, though not ostensibly a lie, was also not fundamentally true. It concerned moving to a new town, where I knew no one, a feat, while a challenge emotionally and intellectually, that evoked absolutely no pride in my sense of person, my integrity, my worth.

Moving forward, I want to have courage. Courage to embark upon new adventures, adventures that potentially incur risks, or injury. Or even courage to continually question preconceived determinations of self. To stretch, arch, contort to new realms of discomfort, and, hopefully, ultimately, joy and discovery. Now, it is near impossible to summon conviction and power; typing these words, it is as though I slowly approach some broad and deep abyss, one that I stare upon, but am never compelled to dive and explore. I hope, pray, plead, with my current and future selves, that this is not the case, for the sake of my sense of pride and dignity in my various accomplishments and endeavors.

I have not written anything worth reading in months, something that I am particularly not proud of; in the coming months, I hope to ameliorate that.

(image taken from Ted Burke Like It Or Not)

Merry and Bright

2011-12-27T16:47:00.000-05:00

For Christmas Eve festivities, I wore the stereotypical and traditional gold metallic sweater with a black dress, which then became a skirt. Keeping with the spirit of Christmas, rec accented my lips, which was perhaps a fatal choice on my part, given that the first cocktail of the evening that I made for myself was a lemon drop with a sugared rim. Sometimes, slowly approaching the edge to stare dangerously and precariously into the abyss is a necessity.

For the sake of histrionics, feigning opening this present, from my younger brother Adam. I actually opened it on Christmas morning, while in an admittedly more disheveled state. It was a bottle of Hendrick's gin; he knows me well.

Following our Christmas Eve gift exchange with family friends, my mother reads aloud "The Night Before Christmas," and we pass around more mildly cheesy, but hilariously amazing gifts; this sounds incredibly lame when converted to prose, but in practice, is amazing, especially following cocktails and wine.

Messy though it can be, I often wish that bright red lips were appropriate daily attire. What I have, indeed, been wearing many days are these gold and orange earrings, a great church sale find, though they have not quite become a constant staple.

Hunter Green, Polo Plaid, and Gold

2011-12-26T12:39:00.000-05:00

On the eve of Christmas Eve, my younger brother and I, frantically rushing to finish up gift shopping for a partially drunken, completely hilarious gift exchange my family hosts every year with old and good friends, braced the traffic and frolicked in the unseasonably warm sun. Rather recently, when I was still in high school, a nearby defunct shopping mall was razed and in its place was erected a large, pristine, franchised outdoor shopping mall, featuring faux-boutique clothing stores, a wine shop, numerous coffee shops, a DSW Shoe Warehouse, and a gargantuan Best Buy. To complete the consumerist fever, there is also a Wegman's Grocer, which anyone hailing from the northeast will recognize as an epicenter of produce-organic-candied-prime cut meats mayhem. Not accustomed to meeting any challenge half-way, preferring the full on, unbridled approach, Adam and I head in the direction of this very shopping center, pretentiously and ridiculously named, and more importantly spelled, the Towne Centre. The various façades do exude a downtown personality, however, the surrounding sea of parking lot gravel gives it all away.

Not completely intentionally, I was in the Christmas spirit with my outfit, pairing dark hunter green with a red, pink, navy, green, and yellow traditional plaid, a dark denim pencil-like cut skirt, some dark navy tights, and wooden brown loafers.

With the bright sun and pleasant temperatures, I have been able to get away, naughtily, with completely ignoring my puffy down coat that resembles a sleeping bag; instead, wearing layers suffices to keep back the colder air. This hunter green sweater, with a deep v-neck, purchased from Banana Republic a few years back, is a silk blend, and is wonderfully warm.

For years, I abhorred the J. Crew catalogue look of collared button-down blouse paired with sweater or cardigan, perhaps harboring some residual resentment for my year-long experiment at an all girls private school as a freshman in high school. Now, more mature and more willing to embrace my love for classic styling, I cannot stop with this layering. The Ralph Lauren men's button down was actually an impromptu gift from my childhood friend, whose family spends Christmas Eve with mine, making merry and frivolously giving, unwrapping, and stealing surprise gifts during our exchange. Originally, she had wanted to wear this shirt as a tunic, belted at the waist, but found the effect to be a bit awkward on her body; I welcomed her discard.

Golden quilted earrings and a thick tiger's eye-like lucite bangle infuse this look with a bit of funk, and add a nice hardware contrast to the soft fabrics of the button-down and the sweater.

I found these dark caramel brown leather loafers for cheap at Century 21; they are comfortable, and make ideal walking shoes, both for the city and for scurrying about large, plaster and concrete suburban town centers.

No Place Like Home for Christmas

2011-12-25T13:26:00.009-05:00

This manager set of miniature painted figurines once belonged to my grandparents, and was displayed prominently in the foyer of their home; it is a well loved, well used reminder of the true meaning of the holiday and the beautiful, inevitable evolution of families. I miss them both every day.

A Christmas tree in our family room, where handmade ornaments from our childhood hang.

Greek pasta salad, an easy and nontraditional side to our meal of Italian cold cut sub sandwiches.

All the appropriate fixings and accessories for some Christmas cheer.

The presents strewn under the Christmas tree in our living room; the anticipation of the arrival of fictional Santa Claus has abated, but, the excitement of giving and receiving thrives.

My mother hangs these pink, silver, and golden vintage ornaments on this tiny silver aluminum tree in our basement; the effect is decadently and charmingly superficial.

Phinneas the cat snuggling in a warm wool blanket, eyes covered in heavy, dreamful sleep

New Santa Claus slippers, which are warm and completely adorable.

Happy Christmas

2011-12-23T17:45:00.005-05:00

For the past few Christmas seasons, my parents have decorated two separate trees, one in our family room, with our childhood hand-made ornaments, and one in our living room. This year, they waited to decorate the glass bulb, or the breakable, tree until my brother and I returned home for the celebration and could join them. I had been lax about setting up and decorating my own artificial tree in my apartment, a product of a hectic schedule and a general sensation of wanting to avoid another chore; the artificial tree finally went, but it was still a welcome surprise to decorate a real fir with my family. Although it has been standing in the living room for a few weeks now, the tree still exudes a delightfully potent evergreen smell, a smell at once exotic and familiar, ancient yet always new and clean.

Many of the glass ornaments my parents own have been with them since they were married; each year, with age, they grow a bit more personality. We used to have a number of large beautiful globes from our ancestor's home, Poland, hand-blown and painted; while one or two remain, unfortunately, the fickle branches of Christmas trees and the artful, anxious movements of child fingers have sent the others to another, fragmented, life.

I have had a difficult time getting into the proverbial Christmas spirit this season, between my schedule, the vacillating weather, a general exhausted and frustrated disposition; purchasing gifts online, though convenient, has not at all helped matters. Drinking a stiff egg nog and gathering around a freshly decorated tree is exactly what I needed; alas, it also meant that I finally had to wrap all of those presents. When it comes to folding wrapping paper, it seems the excited and unskilled maneuvers of small, slow hands return.

This ornament is mine, and I exclusively am permitted to place it lovingly upon a branch, prominently displayed. The figurine is not at all unlike how a certain someone used to look, chubby and round and in a fluffy pink snowsuit.

Outfit for a Tuesday: Poppy, Gold, and Navy

2011-12-23T15:05:00.007-05:00

Between finishing up the loose ends of a few projects at work, as quickly and painlessly as possible, threatening my own life by driving south on the New Jersey Turnpike so close to so many family holidays, and a broken data card reader, playing around with silly pictures of myself and showcasing my inability to capture photographs of my outfits appropriately has been in a bit of a lull. Once again, however, I put my own life at risk earlier this afternoon, venturing out on the road for some last minute gift purchasing, and for a new card reader. It was gruesome, but, ultimately, fruitful and successful.

These navy blue leather Ralph Lauren pumps have essentially become my favorite shoes; although navy is slowly but assuredly, almost, surpassing black as the neutral of choice in my wardrobe, it has not yet prevailed, and I am lamenting that I do not have even more occasions and opportunities to don these beauties. I anticipate some choice selections late in the spring, in warmer months, paired with my favorite cream pants and cream suits.

Poppy red, gold, and navy proved to be an ideal color combination, one that fortunately and exquisitely could exhibit my new shoes. I found this J. Crew poppy red, or Nantucket red, if you are so socioeconomically inclined, wool skirt at a local consignment shop, probably about 7 or 8$. My sister and I discussed some of our torn feelings concerning J. Crew the other day; while I generally adore the aesthetics, I usually cannot quite stomach the price, though, for classic basics, it is often worth it. Some of their cardigans and blazers and skirts, while gorgeous, are in fact not unique and are immediately recognizable; I despise feeling so contrived. Wool skirts have always been a winter staple for me, especially now that I spend my time roaming between cubicles in an office, so it is a treasure to find one in such a thrilling color for such a satisfyingly low price.

I have owned this cowl neck gold metallic sweater from Michael Kors for a couple of seasons now; while I try to avoid wearing it as a hackneyed holiday sweater, invariably, it emerges during or close to times of celebration. Initially, gold metallic with a bright poppy red seemed a bit much, but I found they complemented one another well, with the deep navy serving as a strong foundation.

Pearl bracelet and pearls encased in a navy and gold setting to complete my northeast vacationing John Cheever-sculpted housewife meets consignment treasure fiend look.

When Pruning Leads to Regret

2011-12-22T16:28:00.002-05:00

When I lived in Ithaca, I owned an immaculate cream wool pleated skirt; it was high-waisted and draped to my knee, perfect for tea and for cocktails. It was the type of piece that I wore to class regularly, with thick tights and sturdy boots, a warm knit sweater, able to battle and brace the biting cold and that I also wore to dinner parties and late night dancing soirees. I remember, quite specifically, wearing it to a friend-hosted Thanksgiving dinner, at which I had to maneuver gracefully around a sweet, though ultimately emotionally misguided, young man who had crushed my heart, and had a few wounds on his own, from my retaliating blows. As I was moving from my last apartment back to my parent's home, temporarily, before again moving up north, in a moment of anguish and desperation, I tossed the cream pleated skirt away, along with a number of other garments that ultimately filled at least a few large black trash bags. Cleaning out my closet is always so overwhelming and daunting, but once the deed is complete, utterly satisfying and thrilling. This decision was short sighted, perhaps, as I now constantly see pleated skirts, styled in the street and in editorials, though, perhaps it is just indicative that, like all items sartorial, this trend goes around and comes around.

(image taken from Who What Wear)

Baby's First Christmas

2011-12-22T07:58:00.002-05:00

For Christmas this year, I gave my beautiful baby niece an army of adorable outfits, ranging from infant to six month sizes; though she received them graciously with a toothless smile, admittedly, at this age the presents are more for my sister and her husband. They both were pleased to have a few clothing options for her in the coming months, as she already is growing rapidly and changing a bit every day. While perusing the infant and toddler section of the Century 21 Department Store, it was difficult to show any type of restraint when it comes to editing; I started off grabbing nearly every onesie and jumper off the rack, ravenous with excitement at how minute and precious everything was. Soon, some non-hormonal, more rational neurotransmitters seeped into my brain, allowing me to understand that while spending hundreds of dollars would be much appreciated, it may be perceived as a bit foolish and frivolous.

In a popular culture era where the children of celebrities, through association and the heredity of wealth, are equally idolized and worshiped as their gilded parents, I cannot help but think about how fascinating the sophistication of modern children's clothing. Though designer made, or even inspired, pieces remain predominantly exclusive, to those of a socioeconomic strata, increasingly even massively produced clothing chain items for little girls and little boys emulate the very trends flaunted by either their parents, or their aunts and uncles. Some styles are obviously and ludicrously too mature, looking simultaneously disturbing and comically absurd on small children. The above glittered metallic shift, paired with tight leggings, while elegant and sleek, is also just utterly darling when scaled down to fit the little blonde girl. I suppose my niece Winona will be spoiled to an even greater extent in the years to come.

(image taken from That Kind of Woman)

Louboutin Lusting and Do It Yourself Disasters

2011-12-21T22:43:00.000-05:00

Following my diatribe on a proposed home craft, not unsurprisingly, my sister Elizabeth was the first to chide me for promoting a hackneyed and most likely poorly executed, pedestrian activity; I am the first to admit that pouring glitter all over anything is, indeed, trite and reminiscent of elementary school endeavors with paste, construction paper, pastels, scraps of yarn, and other such detritus of the home. In a series of passively chastising messages, featuring condemning articles about emulating Louboutin pumps with glitter, Elizabeth spurred a bout of nostalgia concerning a favorite ironic memory, enhanced by another anecdote, of one of my dear, though rather hapless, clueless colleagues.

At the beginning of the summer, while attending a large oncology conference in Chicago, this extremely intelligent, though occasionally socially lost, colleague decided to give me a long and involved lecture on the art of professional dress. As with tastes in visual art, music, food, other aesthetics, fashion perspectives are largely subjective, albeit, largely and predominantly formulated by a behemoth and intricate incorporation, joined by a suffocating media. That being said, listening to a long and lingering lecture, given by a woman whose sweater is obviously on backwards, was a bit much for me that day. As my colleague explained to me her art of pairing sweaters with suits, all I could concentrate on were the sewn seams of the tag of her backwards sweater. We rode together in a tight taxi, darting between the other cars and concrete barriers, as she artfully rambled on about her tenets of color choice, fabric choice, longevity, and traditionalism. I somehow maintained composure, slowly sipping my much needed cup of bitter, overly cooked coffee.

A few weeks ago, I learned through my colleague and dear friend that this very woman, a bastion of precise and inarticulate instruction, learned somewhere to paint the bottoms of her heels bright red. Somewhere, manufactured by some craft factory, there is a red paint sealant, almost, or at least seemingly, designed for women to plaster upon the bottom of their shoes. Nicole and my mutual colleague, naturally, had no idea what famous fashion designer she was emulating, however, her tenacity and gumption prevailed. So, in short, if this long rant has a point, indeed, Elizabeth too has a point: replicating designer shoes with home crafted remedies can be a silly prospect, a tried and redundant one. I like, though, at least in some sense, the idea of a world where a crazed scientist, in her hurried trance, in her upside down and inside out style, too, can participate in the current throbbing trends, without spending the funds.

(image taken from New York Girl Style)

Decadence on a Dime: Do It Yourself Glitterized Heels

2011-12-20T16:18:00.000-05:00

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, while spending an afternoon with a few friends furiously perusing the wares at a favorite consignment shop local to my hometown, I was introduced to a positively brilliant idea. Diana, childhood best friend and overall amazing lady, was wearing light peach J. Crew ballet flats, coincidentally, discovered at a consignment shop in Richmond, which she embellished with some artfully placed golden glitter. Using modge podge glue and a bucket of loose gold glitter, Diana had encased the toe of her peach ballet flats in sparkle, lending them a marvelous and cheap flair. All she had to invest was some time, allowing each flat to dry and then re-applying an additional glitter layer to ensure optimal shine, and some good old fashioned elbow grease and crafty gumption.

Today, while procrastinating on writing a report, which, important to note, will be read by no one and is merely a formality for my client, I stumbled across these Robert Clergerie for Opening Ceremony suede platform pumps. While parting with over 700$ for a pair of utterly frivolous, albeit beautiful and French-crafted, shoes is not quite reasonable, finding a comparable pair and dousing them with deluge of craft store glitter seems perfectly acceptable. I think I just found myself an activity for my upcoming days to be spent in the Land of Pleasant Living with my parents.

(image taken from Shop Bop)

Outfit for a Thursday: Stewardess Meets Banker

2011-12-19T17:36:00.000-05:00

Last Thursday, still delighting in discovering these beautiful navy blue leather pumps from Ralph Lauren, purchased for a mere 30$, I was inspired to don the stewardess monochromatic leg look: thigh to knee to calf to heel to toe swathed in deep navy. A tailored navy skirt with slightly puckered waist, coupled with navy tights and these new pumps. Then, in a frenzy for an appropriate blouse, I decided, almost delirious, caffeine not yet absorbed by my slowly spurting neurons, why stop with a single aesthetic; thus, men's wear, first class banker boyfriend blouse on the top, first class stewardess seamless color on the bottom, with a strand of costume pearls for good measure.