Penny For Your Thoughts! Part Three (AKA The Nipple Post)
Every so often, I enjoy taking the focus off of my own dubious fashion decisions and onto those of others.
Today, I am setting my sights on the Kardashians.
Not all of them. That would take entirely too much time.
While I do have an endless expanse of evening before me, with an empty schedule and a full bottle of French wine, I would like to sleep a bit tonight.
So tonight, I’m just choosing one: Khloe.
I was a little distressed when I learned that she would be hosting the X-Factor this year. I had previously been very proud of my anti-Kardashianism. I don’t think any of them need any more money, so I will not watch their shows.
But I semi-like the X-Factor. It’s not that I think that it’s good, per se. It’s just rather hard to avert my eyes. It’s sort of like a car accident, but with fireworks, ridiculous costumes, nearly synchronized dancing, and Simon Cowell.
And then I was a little intrigued by the prospect of her hosting. Could she possibly be as awesomely bad as Steve “Handsome Man, Handsome Man” Jones?
I tuned in to find out.
Imagine my surprise when, on her very first night as host, I saw not only Khloe, but also her two little friends.
And by “friends” I mean nipples. Look:
Instantly, I was outraged.
Outraged!
This is a family show! There are children watching! There are children performing!! Sweet, innocent teenager Arin Ray had to worry not only about singing live in front of an audience of millions, but also standing next to those high beams. Talk about pressure!
Surely, Khloe, however old she is, (35? 50? No clue) has learned by now what will happen if one mixes large, unencumbered breasts, fine silk blouses, and an air conditioned building. Is it honestly that difficult to just put on a darn bra? Don’t most of us with paying jobs usually need to do that at work, even though it’s not that much fun?
And then, I saw a few disturbing things.
A thirteen-year old in a leather bustier and heels. Innocent Arin getting ground upon by girls in booty shorts while he sang. A blush (or gag) inducing amount of Simon Cowell’s glistening (most likely with argan oil) chest hair.
Hmm.
I wondered, Is this, indeed, a family show? Is this, perhaps, show business at its most smarmy and sordid?
Hmm…
What, truly, is so harmful about a nipple?
Have we all just become American Prudes?
I did falter a bit even typing the word nipple, all “What am I saying, nipple”-Clark Griswold style.
It’s the American way.
Remember the outrage over Janet Jackson’s nipple, and the deafening cries to save our sweet American eyeballs from future nipple atrocities?
And yet, turn to almost any channel, at any time, and you will find blood. Violence. Guns. Drugs.
Don’t those sort of things deserve greater outrage??
Pause.
Back to Khloe.
Weeks after I decided that her faux pas was actually no big deal, I decided to look it up on the interweb.
Apparently, it was kind of a big deal. Despite numerous attempts to cover the rogue nipple with her pedigreed locks, there was still a public outcry over it.
Khloe blames Hurricane Sandy; the hurricane stalled delivery of her blouse, and it was only delivered on the very day of the taping (!), so there was no time to screen test it and check for offensiveness! It was, of course, her only option to wear. I hear those Kardashians have very sparse closets. And no one on the staff of hundreds knew what might happen when a silk blouse and no bra combined.
Anyway.
I am sure that I was only initially angered at first because I secretly wanted to be, since she is a Kardashian.
If it was Zoe Deschanel, with a pert bow on her head, blinking those charming doe-eyes at me, would I have been offended by a little nip?
Probably not.
And so. My final verdict is that I am fairly certain that it won’t be a nipple that brings about the end of the world.
But does that make nipple-prominence acceptable in the workplace, or public life?
Many of the world’s most legendary and enduring fashion icons managed entire lifetimes of being photographed with nary a nip-slip or up-skirt. Jackie Kennedy Onasis. Audrey Hepburn. Grace Kelly. Kate Moss.
Just joking about Kate Moss.
So where is the line in the sand, my friends?
Ownin’ It.
Item: Sweater Color/Fabric: Electric Blue, Silk/cashmere Designer: Rebecca Taylor Where Purchased: Barney’s Co-Op Years Owned: 2
Happy New Year to all! And I mean that, quite literally.
Usually, I struggle with the first few days, weeks, months of a new year. It’s been a long time since I felt awed and excited by the prospect of turning a new corner, and starting a new year.
Usually there are a lot of tears. And many wishes to go back and finish the things I thought I had twelve long months to accomplish..
Last year, it took me almost all of January to pull out of that nose-dive (you can read all about that here).
This year, not one single, solitary weeping.
Hoorah!
So let’s chat about resolutions. I’ve tried many in my day. Last year, I had so many good intentions. My LBD Project didn’t quite go as swimmingly as I hoped (you can read all about that here). I just didn’t have the correct LBD do do it! Not to make excuses.
But it is the truth.
Anyway. My other resolutions, (you can read all about those here) correlate quite nicely with this year’s resolutions, niftily named by my dear friend Annie, Thrifty Thirteen.
Welcome to Thrifty Thirteen, y’all!
The concept was borne by another dear friend, Molly, and she shared it during a farewell dinner for the lovely Victoria, whom I miss already. Basically, Thrifty Thirteen involves Shopping Abstinence, which is pretty low on my list of favorite types of abstinence. We have committed to not buy anything NEW, except for absolute necessities.
There are many reasons why I’m on board. Sure, there’s saving money, helping the environment, not contributing to poor factory conditions, and as our fearless leader so concisely put it, a refusal to be “a cog in this mindless consumer culture and spending too much money on STUFF!!”
All of these are excellent reasons, and oh so close to my heart!
But to make this truly work, I have to put this in context of the center of my universe. My closet.
I took great strides in streamlining my wardrobe, saving the cream and letting go of the un-cream, and taking baby-steps in fashion fearlessness last year.
This year, I will conquer it!
If I do not get off of this train I am constantly trying to disembark, the train of unending yearning for and relentless pursuit of new and better clothing options, I will not only run out of money, but I am fairly certain I will not be as happy.
Which leads to the very simplest and truest statement I can make about myself and my life: I have a chronic contentment deficiency.
I have a chronic contentment deficiency.
This bears repeating.
I think that working towards balancing this weakness of mine is my ultimate goal for 2013.
And that means, loving the ones I am with. Making it work. Owning what I own.
I vow to fall deeply, madly, wildly, and endlessly in love with the garments that I currently own. That means; being more creative, taking larger steps toward fashion fearlessness and a strict ban on self-criticism.
Yes! I know that I can do it.
Let’s chat a little about this sweater, shall we? It is cloud-soft, and such a vibrant, happy, beautiful color. And it has the little ruffle on the sleeve and down the sides that I know isn’t really evident in the picture.
Maybe here:
Maybe not. That’s not the most sweater-flattering picture I’ve ever taken… But please note my necklace. Here’s a close-up:
I made this, with a large piece of turquoise that Nate brought me from his first trip to India. And then I wore it with this sweater the night that Thrifty Thirteen came into existence. And after a love and light and chili stew filled dinner, I returned home to find no necklace round my neck. Missing!
Hysterics ensued.
Knowing that it was a one-of-a-kind, with parts lovingly chosen by my love in a strange land, and that even if I tried I couldn’t possibly recreate it because I had neither the pieces nor the remembrance to make that happen, I panicked.
Nate calmly strode out the door and retraced our steps; first the driveway, then the Redbox, then all the way to Rhinebeck, where he found it lying lost and lonely on a snow-shrouded sidewalk.
I do not have a chronic contentment deficiency regarding my marriage.
The only hesitation I have regarding this sweater is the length. I’m not, and will never, ever be, a crop-top sort of girl, as a rule. Note that you can nearly see Trixie’s navel. I do like it as a layering piece, though. And it is by one of the great loves of my life, Rebecca Taylor.
I want to keep it, and am looking forward to finding new ways to love it.
Thoughts?
A Fine, Fine Line.
Item: Maxi-dress Color/Fabric: Dirty peach, silky silk Designer: Gypsy 05 Where Purchased: Next Boutique Years Owned: 1
There was a time when I was quite the little Domestic Diva. I took pride in crafting and creating meals. I baked goods in excessive quantities, so that there would be a little something left for Nate to take to “the boys at work.” I wielded a pretty mean glue stick, and made hand crafted cards for special occasions. I took great pride in my various displays of festiveness. I loved to have parties and be hostess with the mostess.
This year, the extent of my Christmas decorating was sticking a 12-inch tree in a sparkly vase. And yesterday, I ate Chef Boyardee for the first time in about 15 years.
Ah, such is life.
I began to love cooking while I was still in high school. Determined to help my family eat healthy foods, I bought a healthy cookbook and told my mom that if she bought the ingredients, I would attempt the cooking. Lunches, dinners, and even desserts.
Everyone won!
One thing I learned to cook was a dessert called compote. Compote is like a fruit cobbler without the cobbler- fruit baked in sugar and spices. It’s a healthier option because there is no butter-laden crust or topping.
Time marched steadily on, and many a year passed with nary a thought of compote.
Until this summer. In celebration of 12 years of wedded mostly bliss, Nate and I decided to go out for brunch instead of the customary dinner. After scoping out a few options, we decided on the oldest inn in America- the Beekman Arms. I eagerly checked out their menu online, and was thrilled to find they offered fruit compote as a side dish!
Compote!! What a thrilling discovery!
I awoke on the anniversary, with visions of cinnamon and berries dancing in my head. I decided to wear this lovely wisp of a dress, since I had long obsessed over, but had yet to wear it.
Once this was on my person, though, I was a little less sure. There is no doubt that it feels utterly wonderful- the lining is smooth, luxurious silk, and the outer layer a light little puff of silk chiffon. It’s heavenly!
But I could not help but wonder if perhaps it looked like something best left in the bedroom. I felt a little better after adding some jewelry, lace-up sandals, a smile, but still I felt a little exposed.
At the restaurant, I was sure to choose an entree that came with the fruit compote. I was so excited for the warm, tasty treat of my teenage dreams.
What I got was bowl of cold cantaloupe, honeydew, and pineapple.
Fury!
I am never a fan of complaining at restaurants. Having spent so many years in various roles of food service, I remember clearly the horrible feeling of having an unhappy customer. In fact, even after almost 10 years, I still dream about it. So generally, I will just swallow my criticism with each disappointing bite.
But this time, I couldn’t. I had been anticipating the compote for hours. Hours!!
“What I have here is not fruit compote,” I explained politely to the server. “This is a bowl of cold fruit chunks.”
“I’ve worked here for four years,’ she replied. “This is what we have always served. We call this fruit compote.”
I told her what a compote was.
“Hmm,” she replied. “That sounds really good.”
“Yes!”
She went back to the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later.
“I asked the chef if he knew this was not fruit compote,” she told us. “and he said yes! So I asked why we called it fruit compote, and he said he didn’t know but would change it.”
We all laughed, but I knew why they called it that.
Fruit compote sounds much nicer than a bowl of cold fruit chunks.
After the disappointing twelfth anniversary brunch, Nate volunteered to take me yard sale-ing! And we had a nice afternoon, except for not finding many sales. And also there was the nagging question in my mind; would I have been able to negotiate better prices if I hadn’t been wearing this silky negligee/gown-type garment?
But I still like this dress. Maybe it just needs a different context, like sand. I want to wear this on a beach in Hawaii! What do you think? Does this dress cross the lingerie line?
All of these feelings still apply, so I wanted to re-post.
Item: Skirt Color/Fabric: Turquoise and Royal blue, cotton Designer: Odille Where Purchased: Salvation Army Years Owned: 1.5
It has been a somber sort of day. I’m not sure if it is the fact that I didn’t sleep well last night, or if I’m still recovering from my mysterious illness on Sunday, or if I’m just depressed because I still have not managed to complete my Christmas decorations.
It also, most likely, has something to do with the fact that I have been thinking about Pearl Harbor all the day long. It started this afternoon, when I saw a picture on the internet; until then I had forgotten what the date was.
And I started to think about last year, when we visited the Pearl Harbor memorial in Hawaii.
I didn’t know that it would be so enormously powerful. In the beginning I really thought that I would not feel much. We…
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I’m Sale-ing Away!
Item: Sweater vest Color/Fabric: Red, Acrylic/nylon/wool Designer: Kenneth Cole Where Purchased: Marshall’s Years Owned: 2
This summer, something rather monumental occurred. Years in the making, I had been waiting and wishing for the right moment to come along. Many times had I thought about doing it, but could never seem to screw my courage to the sticking point. And then, with a gentle prod from my dear friend Vicki, it was decided.
We would have a yard sale!
12 years. Two apartments, two houses. Never a yard sale.
In my basement, I had seven garbage bags full of clothes, one of handbags, and two of shoes. Not to mention heaps and piles of other random junk we’ve collected over the years, discovered we didn’t need, and promptly forgot about.
And when I say heaps and piles, I mean heaps and piles.
One more smallish heap or pile and we would surely be a contender for Hoarders.
This may come as quite a shock to you, but believe it or not, I develop very strong emotional bonds with inanimate objects. Having a yard sale meant that all those things would be out of my life, forever. At least in the basement I knew where to find them should I need them or change my mind.
A yard sale is so frighteningly final.
But it was time.
Painstakingly, I sorted everything into two piles; regular and dollar bin. Regular items were $5, or 2 for $7. I thought that was very fair.
There was one dress Nate absolutely refused to let me part with (here).
And one sweater my friend Daren talked me out of selling (here).
And then, there was so much work. I had no idea how exhausting a yard sale could be. Hot sun, heavy lifting, tense negotiating. Whew! I loved getting to meet many wonderful people, including some neighbors I had never talked to. And my new 8 month old Schipperke puppy, Guinness Guinevere, do some socialization as well. Here we are after the third sale day:
See how beat I am! Those bags under my eyes deserve their own zip codes! Guinness, though, fresh as a daisy. Look at her ear curl!
But. During the first weekend, I sold hardly any clothes. I got quite a lot of scoffing. Raised eyebrows. Head shaking. As though I only offered trash. It was depressing, insulting, and I felt like a loser.
Especially when one woman picked up an adorable stuffed animal I was selling.
“It’s cute!” I heard her say.
“Yes!” I said. “And only $1!”
The look on her face was priceless; a combination of surprise, puzzlement, and revulsion. That’s when I looked more closely at the toy and realized that she said “Cat puke!”
Not “It’s cute!”
Oooohhhhhh.
“Let me just get rid of that…” I said, unable to meet her gaze.
Anyway. The last day of the sale, I sold clothing like mad. Dropping the price to $3 or 2 for $5 was the key. Yes, it hurt. I sold items I have hardly worn, and paid steep prices for, for $2.50.
But so many women and even style savvy little girls were thrilled with what they found. They didn’t think I was selling trash! They heaped praise upon my bruised ego, and made me smile.
My favorite part was when a little girl who lives down the road bought a dress I’ve never worn, went home, and came back wearing it, looking fabulous.
Here are the items I have written about that found wonderful homes:
My puffy shirt.
The hoe-down jacket.
This tunic.
A plaid skirt.
Something fancy.
Hmm. It…doesn’t seem like a lot. That is only five things. I feel like I sold many more pieces with stories than that.
Maybe I didn’t. Maybe it only felt that way because my heart wept a little every time someone bought an “I Am What I Wore” piece. I was a little worried that writing about my clothes may have the opposite effect than I was looking for. Maybe it only deepens the unnatural bonds I have with them.
But that night, reflecting on what had occurred, I was happy. I hope these pieces will shine in their new wardrobes, and that they will be a part of many new tales.
And I did part with so many pieces that I didn’t write about- either I never even wore them, or they had nothing to tell.
Garbage bags full of what didn’t sell were promptly donated. Beyond my reach, forever. It was liberating! A lesson in letting go.
I might have saved a few pieces I have written about. I want to give them another shot next summer.
CNext year, I will make harsher cuts! I vow to be the Cruel Mistress of the closet! Stay tuned for Yard Sale 2013.
Oh! And do you like the sweater I wore whilst peddling my wares?
Oppan Grantham Style!
Item: Beaded Corset Color/Fabric: Black, silk Where Purchased: Estate sale Years Owned: 0.5
I have always been fascinated with vintage clothing. In the 90’s it was the 70’s. I was the only girl in my junior high to eagerly embrace bell-bottoms and platform shoes. Through the years, I have been obsessed over one decade or another, most recently being the Roaring 20’s. There’s just something about a flapper that is, to me, the ultimate example of effortless chic.
And so, imagine my surprise when, earlier this summer, I unearthed a scrap of beaded fabric at an estate sale.
I would be lying if I said I hadn’t previously purchased seven new pairs of shoes from this sale. But it wasn’t my favorite estate sale style- nothing had prices. I hate having to ask the price of something at a yard sale. I feel like the price will be determined solely on the seller’s opinion of me. It’s not a good feeling.
This particular seller had quoted me a price of $30 for a pretty worn Ann Taylor silk blouse. How much might she ask for what was obviously once part of a flapper’s dress- a very piece of fashion history? Because I was sure that’s what I had found. It was rumpled and tangled and very confusing, but I thought I could use the beads to make jewelry.
The woman looked at the pile of mystery in my hands.
“That? I have no idea what that is. We found it in the basement. It smells bad. How about $3?”
I said yes. A thrill trembled through my limbs. I absolutely could not wait to get home and investigate my treasure.
I carefully unfolded and untangled. I unhooked, unraveled and straightened, gingerly, with love.
Imagine my surprise when I discovered an intact corset blouse, complete with boning, dozens and dozens of heavy eye hooks, and tea length sleeves.
Even more surprising, it seemed earlier than 1920.
Gothic, even, and not a small amount of creepy. Previously, I hadn’t given that much thought to Victorian era clothing. Still I asked Nate to help me put it on.
There are about 50 eye hooks, still securely and solidly attached after a hundred years. Even still, Nate made only a feeble attempt, before he declared it too fragile.
“And it smells bad,” he finished.
Even a few moments of this being on my person was quite enough for me to fall in love. The weightiness of it, the feel of the dangling strands of beads, the rustle it made when I moved, the sheer effort it took to be donned.
It was, indeed, a piece of fashion history. A different, more elegant, more patient time.
“This was, in all probability, worn on the Titanic,” I declared (You can read more about my Titanic thoughts here).
And then I was immediately confused as to what should be done with my treasure. I carefully put it away, and did not think of it for many months.
Until I began to watch Downton Abbey.
What a beautiful show! I am obsessed, and there aren’t even vampires in it! I will not count the ways in which I love this show; if you’ve seen it, you must know them all already. and if you haven’t seen it, watch it right now.
Except to mention the fashion. Glorious, glorious! But not just the women’s fashion. The men’s is so glamorous, it hurts me. In these days, when many men are content to let their underpants puff right out of their pants, can you imagine if men took such time and care with their dress? Sigh.
But on my first viewing of Downton, I thought of my little beaded corset, and knew I had picked the right era. Suddenly, it doesn’t seem creepy or gloomy at all. I can easily picture Lady Mary wearing this, and looking something like this:
Right??
I am certain that this piece is about one hundred years old. That being said, what should I do with it?
It is certainly too fragile and fragrant to wear, and it absolutely wouldn’t hold up on stage. Here are a few of the defects:
Holes in the left sleeve.
The damage in the back.
The right sleeve is nearly perfect, though, and feels and looks so luxurious:
Right side view.
I’ve thought about dismantling it, and trying to reattach onto a plain dress or blouse. I don’t think I could copy it completely. I might be able to give an impression of the original character.
Or, I dismantle it entirely and use the beads and lace to make many other things, like jewelry. The beads are heavy, glass, multifaceted, and stunning.
Danglers.
Or is it offensive to take apart something that has survived for a century mostly complete? I can’t help but think of The Giving Tree.
I would love to know your thoughts on this. I am torn. Honestly, even if you never have or never will vote on another piece of mine, please do this one!
And please, if you feel moved and are able to make a Grantham Style video, and I hope you are, please list me in the credits!
It’s My (Pity) Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To!
Item: Sweater Color/Fabric: Ivory, Viscose/Wool/Nylon Designer: Michael Simon Where Purchased: Next Boutique Years Owned: Less than one
I’m a crier, y’all.
I cry when I am sad. I cry when I am happy. I cry when I am overwhelmed. I cry when I am angry. I cry when things hurt. I cry when I overdo laughter. I cry when I am moved. I cry when I am disappointed. I cry when I am proud. I cry when I don’t know what else to do. I cry when I appreciate art. I cry when I overdo alcoholic beverages. I cry at movies. Theatre if it is good. Most forms of song. Relatively happy tv shows. Seemingly innocent commercials. I cried twice yesterday. I have yet to cry today, but the night is still young.
I really don’t know what my problem is. Honestly, I’m really not a wimp or anything.I live a relatively balanced life.
I simply cry. A lot.
Perhaps it’s because I drink so much water?
It’s just a part of myself that will never change, I guess. I’ve stopped trying. I just can’t help it.
But lately the crying has been slightly out of control, and I ended up having a little pity party for myself for quite some time. It actually wasn’t really that much fun.
No one else came…
Now the pity party has ended, and here I am, with many new and exciting stories to tell!
Up first, this strangely patriotic sweater. It is a terrible picture, but those are stars on it. Like this:
This is what I wore on to my second appointment with my new superstar celebrity surgeon, Dr. Bryan Kelly. I was having a diagnostic hip injection in New York City and hoping upon hope to see a Broadway show after. What to wear to encompass both medical procedure and expensive divergence? I chose this loose, comfy sweater. That just happened to have a smattering of beaded embellishments to dress it up a touch.
Now, I have had many experiences involving hip injections. The most humorous included the phrase “Oh! You aren’t wearing any underpants…” This was after a very intimidating nurse had insisted they had to be removed.
This one was a rather run of the mill, underpants-firmly-in-place sort of procedure. Except that it hurt a little more than I expected. Still, Nate had agreed to see Once: A New Musical, and I was not about to let a little pain get in the way.
I had wanted to see Once for a few weeks, after having seen coverage of its opening on the nightly news while on the treadmill at my gym. The closed captions weren’t working, and I didn’t have headphones to hear what the theatergoers were saying. All I had to work with was a title across the bottom of the screen that read “Once: A New Musical Opens On Broadway,” and the faces of the interviewees. And I needed nothing more. Even though I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying, the face of every person being interviewed just sort of glowed. Like they had experienced something life altering. I knew that I wanted that experience!
And I got to have it. Sitting in a darkened theater, with my hip full of dubious liquid, and Jane Seymour standing behind me, I was enveloped in Once. It was like nothing else I have ever experienced in a theater. I don’t really know how to describe it, except that it felt like all of us in the theater, including the cast, were holding hands, breathing together, feeling together, being together. I just, loved it.
At one point, tears now falling effortlessly and steadily into my lap, the young man to the right of me, who I didn’t even know, touched my hand and said, “It’s just so beautiful.”
Yes.
Walking back to Grand Central Terminal, tears collected under my chin, the lights of fifth avenue blurred and watery, I felt like I would never, ever be the same.
And somehow, everything is always the same.
Nate asks me, when “Falling Slowly” comes on our iTunes, why it always makes me cry. And I say, “I don’t know.”
There are a few lines that I think are just perfect.
But more than that, there are some secrets that just can’t be told. I can’t tell you everything, after all.
Well. What of this confection of a sweater?
Penny For Your Thoughts! Part Two
I have been trying and trying to find inspiration these past two weeks, for naught. It’s been a combination of many things, starting with some growing pains and finishing with finding the ends of a few ropes. But mainly I have been obsessed and utterly consumed with work.
My real job. At MAC Fitness.
Then, tonight, I realized that I had inspiration!
Maybe tonight I have no wardrobe fairy tales to tell.
Tonight, my inspiration is something that has literally been staring me in the face for quite a long time. I wished and hoped it would vanish, but this trend seems to have some unfortunate staying power.
Leggings.
Specifically, Leggings-As-Pants.
I have nothing against leggings themselves. I will admit, though, a very strong recoil the first instance I saw a pair worn in public, on purpose, outside of the 80’s.
It was at Bard college on a Saturday night.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, probably to myself and out loud. “Someone has resurrected the Legging!”
More, probably internal, dialogue, went like this.
No. No! It’s ridiculous. What’s next, the scrunchy sock??
Never. I will never jump on this bandwagon. I did it the first time, hard core. Leggings and baggy sweatshirts and side ponies, all the way!
At some point, I recanted. I realized that Leggings were actually very comfortable, and can actually be chic when worn correctly.
To me, worn correctly means under a tunic, dress, or longish top. Something that covers the hiney.
But lately, I’ve been noticing a disturbing trend.
Leggings-As-Pants.
It started at the gym, and I don’t mean athletic, running or biking tights. I mean fashion leggings, worn as pants.
I feel the Legging-As-Pants is an abomination for many reasons.
One. We used to call them footless tights back in the day. Tights are strictly underwear, unless you happen to be Edie Sedgwick.
Two. They aren’t as thick as real pants. Some of the versions I’ve seen in the gym are akin to body paint. Flimsy. Revealing.
Three. I don’t care how perfect your body is. Leggings-As-Pants are not flattering on anyone. There are bits of all of us that just do not need the kind of attention the Legging-As-Pants call to it. See for example this photo of Olivia Wilde:
She is an amazingly beautiful woman with a practically perfect body! But don’t you think she would look so much more chic if that shirt came down farther and left her, well, cracks, to our imagination??
Four. If you’re in the gym, what’s wrong with yoga pants? They are thicker and ALWAYS more flattering. Or why not a longer shirt? Comfy!
Five. I firmly believe that actual pants are well worth the effort. On those days when a zipper and a button just seem too much to pull off, why not a dress? Or a tunic, with leggings underneath? Wouldn’t that be nice, too?
I just don’t get it.
Am I way off base here? Do others find this trend appealing?
Is this a look you really love on your body?
If you answered yes to any of these questions, can you enlighten me? I am truly puzzled on this one.
Those Baby Blues.
Item: Blouse Color/Fabric: Baby blue, silk Designer: Carol Little Where Purchased: Goodwill Years Owned: Five
One of my favorite feelings in the entire world is the joy of finding genuine vintage clothing, in pristine, perfect condition. And it can’t be on eBay. Although I have found some great pieces there, it’s just not the same thrill as unearthing something old and wonderful in a thrift store.
It’s like being a Fashion Pirate and finding a buried treasure!
This is something that may not be, you know, from the 20’s or anything, but it’s definitely vintage. I think it’s from the 70’s or 80’s, which means that there’s a chance it’s older than I am.
A small chance.
But a chance!
And when I found it, it was pristine and perfect.
Now, not so much…
It might be because I have worn this so very much. It’s just easy and comfortable, and I love to wear it with wide legged jeans on a balmy day.
Or it may be because sometimes, I sweat. And sweat does bad, bad things to aging silk.
Or, it may be the fact that I wore this while snuggling a three-week old infant.
Observe:
That’s my niece Lily as a wee bairn.
We love each other.
Being an Auntie is the best role I’ve played so far in my life. I’m very proud of my awesome Auntie Kerrot status. I get to snuggle, and give gifts, and play, and read stories, and am under no obligation to ever deal with a dire diaper dilemma. It’s pretty awesome!
The hard part is how much I miss.
I’m far away. Even from my closest niece, Ada, I’m still five hours away.
And so, I miss a lot.
But I have gotten to witness many big moments, like my nephew Eli’s possible first word, (glasses, spoken in a hot tub, and still a hot point of debate). And Lily’s first full-blown crawl. And Ada’s first handbag.
Big, magical, moments!
Sometimes, though, I think of how the time goes so quickly, and how they grow so fast, and how very far away I am. And my heart aches.
And then I think of all the wonderful adventures that lie ahead.
We have so very much more to learn and love about each other, and I can’t wait for more!
But perhaps this was a poor choice to wear the first time I held Lily. Although I don’t remember a vomit incident or anything, there is some sort of discoloration on the left shoulder now. She does look awfully drooly in that picture….
I tried to clean it, and it doesn’t seem to budge. There is a little on the other shoulder, too, which makes me think maybe it is a sweat or deodorant thing? The stains are not in the armpits, though. It’s odd. Maybe the fabric is just disintegrating?
Anyway, the day I wore this I honestly didn’t care if it got ruined. I just wanted to hold that baby!
I stand by that, 100%.
However, when the next niece or nephew comes along, I will pack more appropriately.
Like, cotton. The fabric of our lives!
The LBD Project- April Edition
Item: Vest Color/Fabric: Charcoal, Tencel Designer: Kai-aakman Where Purchased: Last Call Neiman Marcus Years Owned: 1
Ah, well, April, you’ve gotten away from me, too.
This LBD Project has proved to be more difficult than I imagined. Wearing the same dress month after month…seriously, what was I thinking??
So, I missed March. I was planning to make up for it by wearing the dress twice in April, but I could only just squeak out a single outing. It’s just…I start to feel a little ill when I think about wearing this dress again. Also, maybe I have accidentally made a few purchases this year that I am dying to wear.
But that goes against my New Yew’s Resolutions to Be More Creative and to Wear What I Own.
Therefore, I’ll just choke down the bile and keep trying.
I will catch up in May! A solemn vow.
This time, I chose to wear the LBD with this stunning Cecelia De Bucourt obi belt I have been desperately trying, for months and months, to find the right outfit for. I have a hard time with belts. Even awesome twisty, dangling metal chain belts. I just never usually like to put more volume onto my mid-section.
Then I added this swingy vest. And my favorite LBS (Little Black Shoes):
Oh, how I love these shoes! I possessed these shoes during a dangerous game; Sale Stalking. This is that thing I do where I will go to a store, find something I love, decide it’s too expensive, leave, carry out my day, and then, just as I close my eyes to sleep, there is the item I didn’t buy, bathed in a heavenly glow and irresistible. And then sleep eludes me. What other choice do I have but to stalk the store every other day or so, waiting for the item to fall into my price range?
A girl can only go without sleep for so long.
I did, in fact push it just a little too far with this pair. I waited for one markdown past safety. But fortune smiled upon me, and they became mine.
I am not always so lucky. Like I said, it’s a dangerous game.
Anyway, with the addition of these masterpieces of chunky heeled delight, I was happy with this ensemble. It made me feel like I might have been a lethal assassin in some futuristic sci-fi movie.
What else might one wear to a Broadway Review Fundraiser?
The event was a fundraiser auction for Golden Stone Productions, a wonderful production company I’ve done a few shows within the past.
Their annual fundraiser has been something I look forward to each year for quite some time.
Give me amazing voices, gorgeous songs, a chance for some shopping, wine, and a few light snacks and I will be a happy camper!
This year was no exception. I’m not sure if I have ever been in a room with such a collection of incredible voices. And I got to sit with friends I don’t see often enough, but always enjoy being around.
The only downside is that sometimes, very rarely, every so often, heels are not my friend. To be more accurate, they are not my hip’s friend. I always enjoy a warm friendship with my heels.
So on this particular night, the LBS bothered me, and then I sat for a while, and then there was nauseating, fun-obliterating pain.
I missed out on drinks afterwards with many amazing people whom I love dearly. And don’t get to spend nearly enough time with.
I did still like my outfit, however. You?
I Am What I Wore 