Frolicking in Fryes and Sister Rivalry

Most likely combining both genetic ingrained elements, transcribed and translated, and interactions and reactions with the molecular micro-environment and the greater world around us, with phenotype and behavioral manifests, younger sisters are jealous of older sisters. Particularly true during childhood, when older sisters seem better able to manipulate parental constraints, when older sisters have later bedtimes, and can turn the manipulation on the younger sister to steal her last few bites of ice cream cone, they just seem to exude an attitude and a capability that is desired. Naturally, the playing field grows a bit more flat and even after university when both siblings are adults, and constructs such as bedtimes are now of their own decision. But, for me, I am still often jealous of my older sister Elizabeth's impeccable style, a bit adapted now for motherhood, much different from my own, and her long history of owning and wearing beautiful Frye boots.

For most of my professional life, the Frye price range was just a bit elusive, at least, in the face of my nearly always looming and dominant rent check, and the desire to eat partly delicious and nutritious foods, sometimes. So, while I would always peruse the wares on the myriad online shoe warehouses, I never felt comfortable pulling that proverbial trigger and making a purchase. This fall, all may change; I feel ready for the plunge into a sturdy and luxurious boot, one that need not be replaced after one or two seasons of heavy use. Now, the only problem that remains is selecting a pair.

(image taken from Zappos) 

Mourning: A Plastic Mishap

For the devoted, or perhaps the bored and restless with the wonderful luxury of excessive leisure time, this photograph may be familiar from here, an excerpt of life captured nearly a year ago. Aside from my typically omnipresent bodacious bangles, beautifully displayed, this image encapsulates, and for now, enshrines, in memorium, my large plastic ivory cube ring. Deviating from my traditional search for costume jewelry from another era, I found this piece at a popular contemporary boutique in Ithaca, near the campus. Ivory is an elegant and versatile color, I admired the geometry of the piece, and it evoked some of my favorite accessory aesthetics, bakelite, the first manufactured plastic ever. Since discovering this inexpensive ring nearly five years ago, I have worn it almost everyday. 

On a related tangent, my relationship with the inefficient and lazy dryer in the washing unit on my apartment floor is tumultuous and passionate, one of hate and disappointment and frustration. For one quarter, I receive seven minutes only of lukewarm tumble drying, and, quite frequently, my quarter is greedily devoured without the fickle machine fulfilling its end of this mostly unavoidable transaction. Sometimes, if one pleads sufficiently well, by banging at the top of the creature with a clenched and angry fist, the quarter will dislodge from this cruel trap, potentially a clever ruse by my conniving landlord, and fall into place.

Earlier today, amidst tackling months of laundry, as my arsenal of quarters had risen in ranks and was prepared to be depleted, I deposited my precious coin into the mouth and it was swallowed, without the satisfying cling into its rightful spot. Eyes narrowing, my hands splayed across the beast, burst forth like a hot spew of hot neurotransmitters. I feel a quick pinch and hear a snap, and then look to the ground: my ring is in three pieces, broken. I am now doubly defeated. 

It is strange, the attachment and bond we develop for certain inanimate and invaluable material items; at first, I had that phantom limb sensation of soldiers and victims of horrific natural tragedies. Now, I merely feel naked, left exposed and vulnerable. Thankfully, the filmmaker is expertly adroit with superglue, and intends to, at the least, make a valiant attempt for a repair. If he fails, well, perhaps this is some symbol of greater cosmic significance that I am due for some change in my life. 

Lusting for the Filmmaker: Classic Chinos

The filmmaker is morally and pragmatically opposed to chinos; while I will accept his claims that they are impractical, as often the vertically-cut pockets are not conducive for storing anything, especially change, numerous drawing implements, and a moleskin, I am more skeptical to his vehemence that chinos are uncomfortable. They are the fabric of traditional preppy leisure, though, perhaps, to each his own. While his paint-splattered cut-off corduroy shorts, basic summer garb, are certainly charming and endearing, an occasional, or even rare, appearance of khaki or navy or charcoal slacks would be welcome. This casual look with just the right proportion of primary color accenting is elegant while still maintaining that masculine, boyish flippancy. I would never hope to negatively influence his style and general artist aura, but, a girl, with an unwavering adoration of men's wear design and structure and attitude, can certainly dream. I cannot complain too much, however, as he definitely has the cute sweater look down expertly, and sometimes even layers them. Still, though my intent is selfish, it seems for shame, to obscure some shapely legs from view in a looser cut.

(image taken from Coffee and the Newspaper)

Lusting to be a Longhorn

For some time now, I have harbored a not completely inexplicable fascination with Texas: the second largest state in our vast, wild, glorious union, its expanse of geography and history and culture is iconic. I have not yet been, but, like many who have never met the breeze or basked in the sun or walked the paths or driven the roads or tasted the food and drink, I nonetheless feel a sense of familiarity with the place. A sort of imagined, fictional nostalgia, one built from a collective cultural consciousness of the state, an almost personified aura that is palpable and potent for even us strangers, foreigners, to this land, almost its own nation. 

A few months ago, I obsessively watched the entire series of Friday Night Lights; interest in specific character development and plot trajectories aside, I was enthralled with this sort of phantom connection I felt, for the town of Dillon and for the broader state. Where I grew up in Baltimore, lacrosse is god, football something you played in the off season to stay in shape, keep limber. The town did not close for Friday evening games. More than a handful of fans in the stadium, beyond the family members, was a successful crowd turnout. Personally, if I had been to two football games while a high school student, I would be surprised. Yet the notion of small-town football, never a direct visceral experience, is one I know; it is an American trope. The football coach, the clean-cut quarterback, the disgruntled and aggressive defensiveback, the zealous and fanatic parents, all archetypes that those who have lived here in this country long enough recognize, can feel empathy for, can find bemusement in satirizing.

On the Fourth of July, while gorging and guzzling with friends, we all shared a pack of Texan-themed temporary tattoos and applied them each other, selecting bizarre body locations for the stereotypical symbols. I chose the longhorn and, aptly, placed it on my left shoulder blade. When I spied this white leather snake hide clutch, embellished with a longhorn skull, I immediately wished it was a piece I could carry with me every day, no matter the occasion or the purpose.  My clutch collection has not had a new addition in quite some time; the cross-cultural exchange with my vintage patent leather and wicker bags could be interesting.

(image taken from Bag Poor)    

Outfit for a Tuesday: Fierce Tiger

My rant on potential remedies to the suburban blues was in jest, a rather pathetic attempt at satire during a slow week, though, my penchant for what I associate with suburban style is mostly earnest. What started as a not completely ironic activity and aesthetic is now not exactly dominant in my wardrobe, but definitely gaining traction. This sort of silky, flowing tiger patterned tunic blouse from Michael Kors is the latest addition and a prime example. Within this billowy and comforting fabric, casually elegant, I can definitely envision myself at a local Whole Foods Market, fingering the avocados for ripeness. Yesterday, I paired it with thick cream slacks and, for some decadent suburban living overkill, black leather and silver medallion Michael Kors sandals. In different times, it would have been the ideal outfit to hit the town and attempt to pick up a dentist.

Since I am not quite prepared to throw in the towel and do want a sort of semblance of keeping it real, I wore my one of my favorite lucite bangles, entombing a crumpled piece of aluminum foil, and a bodacious hammered silver cuff. For an extra glint of sparkle, for even more light refraction, my chandelier lucite necklace.

Combatting Suburban Malaise, or, Three Years, or, White Denim

(image taken from Angel Fire)

Amidst the staggering, pulsating wave of heat, one that grips the body in its mandibles, chewing and gnawing until lathering in saliva-sweat, and a pile of projects baking on my cubicle desk from the sunbeams refracting through my large window, I neglected my three year anniversary with my company. And my three year anniversary living in a small suburban town on the outskirts of one of the greatest and most exciting cities in the world. Three years in the same apartment, which I mostly adore, the same short and frantic commute to my office. Three years occasionally frequenting the same hackneyed local bars, with select but occasionally admirable wine and cocktail options. Three years where live music is a rare and special occasion, and establishments that offer goat cheese are deluxe. This has also meant three years, again, on the outskirts and thus incredibly close to a beautiful and vibrant city, but, sometimes, those are the longest twenty-five miles in the world.

For young and intelligent and spirited young women, suburban malaise is a prevalent condition, one with myriad manifestations and an even vaster array of potential solutions, with, naturally, varying degrees of efficacy. Conflicted with my own malaise, at this realization of time spent between manicured lawns and franchise-laden strip shopping centers, my creativity has been sufficiently suffocated and stunted. So, in cataloguing some of the appropriate remedies, I have turned to revered and beloved icons, fictional and fantastically real, for inspiration. 

Though Primrose Hill is decidedly not suburban, and is in fact an epicenter of wealth and culture, Sylvia Plath cannot shed her status as queen of feminine frustration, of an insatiable and unfulfilling quest for intellectual challenge. For a mutually respected love. While I can totally get aboard writing notebook after notebook of confessional poetry, unleashing my aggression on the characters of my life in verse, sticking my head in an oven seems a bit extreme. The filmmaker is far from a philandering liar, so, I think I can avoid this measure.

  

(image taken from All Movie Photo)

April Wheeler of Revolutionary Road plotted an expatriate escape to Paris, a whimsical and romantic device I can support and would follow, awkward neighbor-sex, self-performed abortion, and death aside. Her husband also not completely faithful, to his wife, and to their ultimate fantasy of fleeing the country.

(image taken from Film)

Seduction by the powers and the cunning of my own inexplicable sorcery, in the vein of the older and sultry temptresses of The Witches of Eastwick, would probably be optimal, especially as there are a plethora of ridiculous folks in my town that could benefit from the surprise. Alas, summoning threatening thunderstorms and efficacious effigies does not seem to be happening with my hands and my concentration alone. Hopefully, though, in a few years, and after a failed marriage, my competencies in flirtation and casual liaisons will not be stifled by a lackluster environment, if I am still wallowing here among the picket fences and elementary schools.

 

(image taken from Helen Glory)

If I had the financial resources, for the appropriate wardrobe and the appropriate accoutrements, like the crucial and expensive horse, I could take up riding, like the contemporary poster-girl for suburban ennui, Betty Francis, formerly Betty Draper. On trend, while Mrs. Don Draper, she tolerated, and also retaliated against, a fair amount of rousting philandering that seems to be associated with advertising demigod status. Banal, but effective, her horseback riding obsession alleviates some of the frustration that comes with both sexual and intellectual dissatisfaction. A bit of a healthier alternative to the oven solution.

(image taken from Book Tryst) 

(image taken from Lucindaville)

Arguably the most feasible, least destructive, and rationale approach to battling suburban doldrums is to dive into a collection of poetry or a thick, stream of consciousness novel and spend the lazy, quiet days reading. I do indulge, though, unfortunately, not as often as I would like given my professional fettering to my computer.

  (image taken from Real Simple)

For now, without a cheating husband or a literary giant to imbue me with marvelous magic, I have embraced a sort of if-you-cannot-beat-them, join them approach, basically, by dressing like a young suburban mother, only without the breast milk and vomit stains, and without the over-sized pastel pink diaper bag. My latest indulgence has been a pair of white cigarette-leg skinny jeans. Given my earlier innocently inappropriate allusion to young mothers and stained clothing, perhaps my associating them with white is a tad misrepresentative. But, it is my suburban party, and I can lie to myself if I want to.

I ordered the jeans from the Gap, falling victim to their latest online sale. They have not yet arrived, but, when they do, I have the perfect flowing tunic and golden sandals to accompany them, each items plucked from the sartorial stylings of my own mother. The prospects are thrilling.   

Outfit for a Thursday: Midnight Blue... or Midnight Black?

This dilemma of mine is, indeed, a wardrobe trope: is that a very dark navy, almost midnight blue, or is it just black? With certain articles of clothing, it is nearly impossible to discern, at the store, even if surrounded by a collection of other items in the same ambiguous shade, at home under the kitchen light, in the office under an interrogating fluorescent light. When I bought this dress a few weeks ago before heading to Barcelona, for the second time in recent memory, and was certain the stripes were navy and white. Like so many other items in my closet, the dress is a versatile basic, and with the navy and white combination, a typical preppy and nautical-inspired piece, or so I thought.


The first few times I wore this dress, I was still convinced, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was navy. My styling, however, each time was such that it made no difference whether that second neutral, now in question, was a deep navy or a bluish black, like squid ink. First, attending a colleague and friend's birthday party cook-out, I cinched the waist slightly with a bright, true pink suede sash, coupled the look with copious and opulent rhinestone accessories and a pair of silver and turquoise sandals. The second, in Barcelona, I paired it with red and gold. Each time, the color combinations could have just partnered perfectly with a black stripe.

On Thursday morning, during my indulgent and long warm-cold shower, I remembered this orange and navy and gold paisley cardigan that has been sitting quietly in my closet; I decided, perfect, easy, ideal for this striped navy dress. Suddenly, to my dismay, the colors before me were becoming slippery, intangible, impossible to define: black or navy? Physical laws of light were being questioned before my eyes, as what had been navy now seemed something a bit off, darker, colder, more cruel. Pushing my histrionics aside, I decided to just push forward and ameliorate the situation with a different cardigan; the dress is black, was my verdict.

I replaced the paisley number with this black alternative; still, though, the color transience persisted, a sort of refusal to fall neatly within one category or the other. This cardigan also looked, simply, wrong. By this point, however, I was thoroughly confused and had not yet imbibed a sufficient amount of caffeine to make a quick, intelligent, and prudent judgment. Since I put this on second, it just stayed on.


Later that evening, while basking in the incriminating lights of the wardrobe room at my local TJ Maxx, I decided that my initial assessment was in fact correct. The dress is blue. Why, two outfits and a number of weeks later, I convinced myself that I had just at that moment become enlightened, I am unsure. I will plea temporary insanity, or, more aptly, oscillating insanity. It comes in waves.

Delicate crystalline patterns, merging simultaneous construction and destruction, have always fascinated me. With a blend of blues overlaid on the black, perhaps pairing this with my navy dress was not so egregious. 

Unfortunately, large and loud costume jewelry often does very little to distract and detract from one's incompetencies in discerning color.