Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Strap on yer goin' out shoes



Now THAT is a New Year's Eve shoe.
Or, if you're my sole-mate (THE PUNS! THEY SLAY ME!), you think that's a shoe to wear to brunch.

For some reason, everyone (including yours truly approximately every other year) gets their knickers in a knot over what their New Year's Eve plans will be. It seems like the only other holiday that people unnecessarily freak out more over is Valentine's Day. To that, I say HARUMPH.

Guess what--unless you're getting proposed to at a specific location that you have to find without the aid of your future husband/wife, it doesn't really matter where you are on New Year's Eve. The year will still start whether you're kissing someone, throwing up in a bathroom, or watching The Holiday in your leopard-print Snuggie. And no, I'm not referencing my own plans with that last option. I'm not lucky enough to own a leopard-print Snuggie.

So, relax. The only plan that I have so far--no matter where I am--is to put on the most audacious shoes I own and possibly wear my secondhand fur coat that smells like someone died while smoking 50 packs of cigarettes at once. If you can't procure a fur, I suggest you at least put on tranny shoes. Especially if you happen to be of the male persuasion.

Monday, December 28, 2009

Tar-jayyy. It's pronounced Tar-get, world.

Target's "designer collaborations" have never impressed me all that much. Frankly, I like going to Target because I know I'm going to find clothes at "how many children do they employ in sweatshops?" prices. I'm not going there because I want to walk out with an Anna Sui dress. If I want a designer dress, I'll just be patient, save up $600-$1,000, and somehow justify spending that on a couple yards of fabric with a label sewn on it.

I understand that it's that exact mentality that Target is attempting--successfully--to change. I can only assume that they've acheieved success, because each collaboration has featured a more popular designer than the last, and shoppers begin anticipating the latest collections several months before they hit stores. Gasp! Just like in the real high fashion world! Where Target doesn't, and shouldn't, exist.

This impossibly elitist rant is going somewhere soon, I assure you.

Today, I went to Target looking to buy new slippers. Exactly the kind of simple, $10 item that I trust them to have in at least 3 different colors. THEY FAILED ME. I am still slipper-less. However, as I was sulking out of the store, I noticed a sign for their latest design partnership with Rodarte. I love Rodarte. LOVE THEM. Those two sisters can do no wrong in my eyes. All of their clothes look like they came straight out of a gothic, S&M-infused tea party. And I'm not alone in my admiration--this launch has had people on the edge of their seats since summer. Shocked that they still had anything in stock, I adopted the "crazed holiday shopper" persona and grabbed about 8 things, rushing into the dressing room before anyone could steal my bounty.

Verdict? Meh. I feel like they were inspired by a retired, drug-addicted ballerina. There's an enormous amount of tulle--almost to the point where I feel like someone should have pointed them in the direction of cotton--and everything is uneven or ragged. We've got slips with tulle overlays that are at least three inches longer than the slip, a tie-neck blouse composed solely of tulle, lace t-shirts, and the hooker dress to end all hooker dresses. It's mid-thigh-length with long sleeves (fine so far), made of lace (still sort of fine), leopard print (hmm...), and has three grossly oversized leopard-lace bows running up the back zipper.

WHAT? Of course I grabbed it, but after trying it on and giggling at the $40 price tag, I realized that I looked like someone who'd be worth about $5 on a busy corner. I'm not entirely suprised that the glory of Rodarte's runway shows didn't translate to a bargain big box store. I just really wish that people would stop pretending like it did. These aren't handmade dresses. They're not "directional" or avant-garde. They're lined up next to $12 Mossimo cardigans (which, let's be honest, is a much better purchase than a tacky dress that costs more than 2x that). So please, shoppers. Before you rush to Target to buy a "designer" label, remember what you're purchasing. A shoddily made, overpriced garment with an extra-special name sewn in the collar.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

On allure

I'm obsessed with women who look like they have a secret.

Pardon my ineloquence, but I honestly can't think of a better way to describe that look that some women have. I'm obsessed with them because where they look like they have a secret, I look like I want to tell you the password to the treehouse in my backyard. There is nothing mysterious about the way I move, smile, or frown. I am, in a word, obvious. Plenty of praises can be sung of obvious women (right? RIGHT.), but there is something inherently captivating about a woman who is slightly more subtle, whether it be in the way she interacts with people or the way she dresses. I will never stop praising the virtues of a higher-than-high heel, nor will I cease wearing a garish shade of red lipstick to go to church or the grocery store. However, I may start channeling some of the subtlety that I covet into my wardrobe. If only because it's a new decade, and change is good, and blah blah blah. Whatever. I just want to see if I can get as excited about a well-tailored dress pant or simple blouse as I can about a sequined jumpsuit at Goodwill.

When it comes to possessing an alluring, mysterious personality...no dice. I'll probably still laugh like I'm having a heart attack, turn ridiculous shades of red when I'm excited or nervous, and walk like I'm on a mission, but perhaps I can get people to think "Wow, I wonder what's going on underneath the turtleneck of that gaffawing, red-faced speed walker."

Saturday, December 19, 2009

Dandy thoughts

"Fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months."

Mista Wilde certainly knows what he's talking about.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Deeply shallow

Alright, who saw Erin Brockovich? God, I love that movie. Mainly because I love any movie that makes it seem like being a lawyer just means spending a lot of time researching in dingy libraries, making all sorts of sordid deals with witnesses in dive bars, and having a huge impact on someone's life every single day.

But back to the matter at hand. There's a particular scene in that movie where Erin is talking to one of the members of the class-action suit that she's filing. Because this woman drank the awful, poisoned, CORPORATE water (that's not meant metaphorically), she gets cancer and has to have her breasts and uterus removed. Then, a slightly moving speech follows where she asks Erin if she's still a woman even though her female anatomy has been almost completely eradicated.

I ask myself a variation of this query a lot lately. But since I still have all my bits and pieces, it goes more like this: if I wear my uncle's plaid flannel button-down, jeans that are two sizes two big, and checkered Vans slip-ons at least 3x a week, am I still a woman (who cares about fashion)?

Thank heavens I keep a blog. Otherwise, the important questions just wouldn't be asked!

Monday, December 14, 2009

Sense and sensibility

Chicago, you've finally done it. After attempting to prance around your suburbs in all sorts of ill-begotten footwear for years on end, I find myself trolling the websites of L.L. Bean, Lands' End, and Target to find a pair of duck boots.

MOTHERFUCKING DUCK BOOTS*. Google that shit if you're blessed enough to not know what I'm talking about.

If you happen to spot me on the street and I'm wearing a pair of mid-calf, lace-up black/brown boots with massive rubber toes, please ignore me. God knows I'll be ashamed enough as it is without having someone I know call out my name and cringe at my footwear.

*OK, in all honesty, I'm equal parts ashamed and excited about procuring these boots. MY FEET WILL FINALLY BE WARM. I will be able to tread with assurance rather than trepidation! My hooker shoes will still have their moments. They just won't be subjected to black ice and 3+ inches of snow/slush.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

One part Lars von Trier, one part Medea

My friend/resident film buff KMC (initials make everyone more mysterious! Even though most everyone knows who I'm referring to.) recently lent me a rash of films by that crazy director, and I watched my first one this past Monday. Since I have zero confidence in my ability to interpret films, I figured that I should start off my von Trier venture with a movie that had a plot I would understand. Medea it is! I liked it quite a bit, and while I've got all sorts of silly observations to attempt to impress KMC with, one thing that struck me on a bloggy, aesthetic level was the costuming of Medea. He's got her in a sort of black skull cap, and a long-sleeved, floor-length black dress. Both the skull cap and the dress look like they've been covered and re-covered with strips of torn black fabric, which created some interesting texture, and helped to convey (fairly obviously) the shredded remains of the life Medea had with Jason.

Fast forward to today when I decided that it would be SO COOL if I could dress like von Trier's Medea. No need to point out that I am a hopeless nerd. Some people might think it's creepy to emulate the style of a desperate woman who murdered her kids. I think that she's misunderstood and looks like she came off the Rodarte A/W '10 runway. Hence why I spent the entire day in two black dresses, ripped black tights, a navy wrap sweater, and bondage-y boots. It didn't necessarily scream "don't leave me with your children!" but I liked it well enough.

Just wait until I watch The Passion of Joan of Arc. Who knows what runway show I'll be able to reduce Carl Th. Dryer to!

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Do. Not. Want.

OMGOMGOMGOGMOGMGOM.

OK, for a moment, ignore the fact that the shape of these shoes harkens back to the Spiceworld era. Instead, focus on the fact that a crystal bird is taking flight from the toe of this shoe. Miu Miu, your shoe designs slay me.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Look over here! A slightly feminist rant!

While this is technically considered old news, I can't help but be bothered every time it crosses my mind.

A few weeks ago, Kate Moss told Women's Wear Daily that one of her mottos was "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." The moment the words came out of her mouth, everyone from fashion critics to eating disorder groups jumped at the chance to crucify her. Fashion critics went a little easier on her, stating that perhaps she should have a different motto, while spokespeople for eating disorder awareness organizations blamed her for causing young, happy girls to be anorexic.

What Kate Moss said sounds stupid, yes. Of course food tastes better than bones feel, and anyway, that is an illogical comparision. However, does she deserve this amount of ridicule? No. It is literally in Moss' job description to be skinny. Models routinely get fired for even the slightest physical change, which certainly includes weight gain. So, berating her for having a skinny-friendly motto would be akin to lambasting a sumo wrestler for saying "Everything tastes as good as fat feels."

I whole-heartedly admit to being a feminist that focuses on body issues. For me, the mind and body of a woman are what lie at the core of feminism, ya hear? So, naturally, I've taken this whole Kate Moss thing to that level. To me, it seems like underlying issue in the Moss-hatin' trend is this: women can't do anything right with their bodies in the eyes of our society. You've got anti-obesity crusaders who are raging against Beth Ditto's "fat acceptance" attitude, anti-eating disorder activists who can't stand how skinny Kate Moss is, and the media who can't stand the "average" woman and try to sell diet books and 3-minute cake mixes with equal aplomb to push her toward one extreme or the other.

Kate Moss isn't the picture of health for the following reasons: she drinks, she smokes, she's been known to use cocaine, and probably doesn't drink enough water or eat enough fruits and vegetables because she's busy. Oh, and she's too skinny. I get that young girls, old women, and men look at models and wonder why they can't look just like that, and I think that is horrendously sad. But yelling at Kate Moss for doing her job and being vocal about it is attacking the symptom rather than the problem. How about we try to be healthy by our own standards rather than yelling at people who don't live up to impossible ones? Hmm...that might actually be difficult in this world.

Obviously, my solution is to start some sort of body-lovin' society once everything crumbles in 2012 and all we're left with is John Cusak and a whole lot of time to figure out how our body images and expectations got so twisted.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Christmas on Lover's Lane

http://www.modcloth.com/store/ModCloth/Womens/Born+To+Be+Wild+Boots

"A boot should cover your toes. If it doesn't, it's just a sex toy."

--My mom, after I mentioned that I thought these would make a lovely Christmas gift.


Love you mama.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

The token "let's give thanks!" post

I know Thanksgiving is over, but the sentimental holiday season has officially begun! Meaning that from now until January 1, all of my friends will have to hear me wax on about how attractive/funny/talented/kind they are on the daily, until it seems like these compliments have lost their meaning. Then I'll brutally stop doling them out on that fateful date, and y'all will wish that I would go back to being gratuitous with my feelings.

BWA HA HA.

So, here's what makes me all warm on the inside in no particular order:

1) All of you attractive, funny, talented, kind people that read this here blog and comment on it. It's pretty egotistical to keep a blog, so the fact that you all are willing to indulge my selfish ventures by reading it and spur them on by adding delightful comments means the world to me.

2) People shopping again, whether it's for supplies to make handmade goods or dresses from Zara.

3) The fact that at the end of the day, I'd need more than one modestly-sized list to outline everything I have to be thankful for.

4) But most importantly of all, ungodly high heels. Specifically, Christmas heels meant for strippers.

Monday, November 23, 2009

For the record, I still have "Bad Romance" stuck in my head

Naturally, when I think of the Lady herself, my thoughts wander over to undergarments. I'm not about to endorse parading around in one's bra and knickers* and calling that an outfit, but praises need to be sung of a certain underutilized garment.

THE SLIP.

That's right. If you're a lady, or a man that favors skirts over pants, you should be wearing a slip during the winter months. I used to be ignorant and think that only old ladies wore slips. WRONG. Attractive, young women who don't want their ladyparts outlined for all the world to see when a stiff wind blows or static cling takes over wear slips.

You see, when you wear a cotton/rayon/jersey/really any "easy, breezy" fabric dress (with or without some type of legwear), it's bound to stick to certain places**. LIKE TO THE OUTLINE OF YOUR HOT BOD. Unless the dress is extremely structured and composed of a stiffer fabric, you're going to be yanking your dress away from your body almost all day. That is when a slip is a literally godsend. Throw a little piece of satin under your dress, and you'll notice an approximately 90% rate of reduction in adjusting.

Unfortunately, many people (including retailers) have jumped on the "slips are lame! Boo!" bandwagon, and only sell kidney-squishing Spanx. That's when you find Kohl's, or your state's equivalent, and head over to their undergarments section. Look for the unexciting nude, white, and black collection of fabric pieces, and you'll have found the slips. If you're only having issues with the skirt of your dress, save money and buy a half slip. If the whole she-bang has got you in a tizzy, buy the full body one. Trust me, you won't regret it.

Or, if you've got decent thrift stores in your area--hell, they don't even have to be decent--start rooting around there. It's not the same as buying used underwear, so don't even start with the judgmental looks, MMMK? Who knows? You might find a red, maribou-trimmed one! However impractical that might be for wearing under things, you'll be able to imagine what the woman who used to own it was like. I'm going with an aging, but still foxy lady of the night, who smoked Pall Malls with a cigarette holder, and said things like "dahhhhling! We're out of gin and it's almost dinnertime. What WILL I eat?"

Tangents aside, I think we can all learn a little lesson from that aging hooker: even whores should wear appropriate foundation garments.


*I hate the words "panties" and "underwear." Knickers is pretty much all I have left.

**This excludes American Apparel dresses, which were designed solely to outline every last inch of your hot bod. Work it.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Jezebel and Jesus in one convenient figure

I have my fair share of shallow and comparatively deep beliefs. One of those beliefs happens to be reserved for Lady GaGa. Say what you will about her music, but the girl knows how to present herself. Just watch the video for "Bad Romance" if you haven't already.

12-inch Alexander McQueen heels! Yeah, Vogue editors measured them. The Economist might be predicting when this whole recession mess will end, but methinks it's safe to say that Vogue is doing the hard-hitting investigative journalism here.

Monday, November 16, 2009

It's jam-jam time

That time is as great as Hammertime, right? Oh, who am I kidding. Changing into pajamas isn't anywhere near as fun as watching MC Hammer do just about anything.

I take advice that comes from strangers really, really well. When a well-meaning family member or friend offers sage wisdom, I'm quite stubborn about it, and will wait about three weeks before quietly integrating it into my day-to-day life, hoping that they don't notice my concession. However, when a magazine, book, or homeless person instructs me to do something, I am all about hopping on their bandwagon.

Where is this going? Here we are: most magazines write about how you should throw out "ugly" clothes like sweatpants and holey pajamas, because you feel worse about yourself when you wear crappy clothes. This makes sense, to a point. While I crawl into a state of depression if I wear sweatpants for more than three days in a row, they're still kind of comfy for when I don't want to wear pants with any kind of structure.

Instead of listening to the "to a point" qualifier that was in my head, I decided to give all of my crappy pajamas and sweatpants to Goodwill. Because that's what you do if you want to be beautiful, happy, and fashionable! Except I neglected to do what said magazine instructed next: go buy more shit so that you're not standing in the middle of your room at night wondering what you're going to wear to bed. This might not be a big deal to those of you who sleep naked, but for me, this is huge. I'm an incredibly cold person (both emotionally and physically...zing! To myself!), so I need to be bundled in unattractive layers of flannel and sweatsuit material. It's taken me quite a long time and GIVING AWAY MY PAJAMAS to realize that no, I won't feel like crap if I go to bed in flannel sweatpants or a nightgown my grandma would have been proud to wear. I'll be too busy feeling warm.

Also, I think I'm going to stop taking advice from magazines for a time. With the exception of Cosmopolitan. I'm always open to advice on how to make sex last for five hours using only an ice cube, a spoonful of peanut butter, and a tie.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Tonic n' Tights

It's Wednesday night, and I'm thoroughly entrenched in finishing a vodka tonic, writing a pop culture week in review article, and hand-washing my tights.

I believe that this is the definition you'll find when you look up "living the dream" in a phrase dictionary.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Office where?

I'm double-posting today because I'm extremely passionate about these two things: post titles that play on words and business attire.

Currently, I "work" two "jobs" that don't really ask for much, sartorially speaking. From 10 am until 2 pm, I'm an unpaid intern at The A.V. Club, where I transcribe interviews and listen to hilarious conversations about facial hair and the validity of defining RoboCop as a cinematic gem. From 4 pm to 8 pm, I work from home doing freelance editing for a test preparation company.

The rules of dress for The A.V. Club are as follows:

1) Make sure you wear something that covers both your top half and your bottom half.
2) If that's asking too much, a bathrobe is also acceptable.

The rules of dress for working from home are as follows:

1) THERE ARE NO RULES. Sometimes I wear (clean) underpants on my head while talking to my editor just because I can.

However, as someone who likes to wear frilly and impractical things, you had better believe that I do a little bit more than just cover my respective halves at my internship, and sometimes, I'll even wear pants while working at home. It's easy for me to feel self-conscious about being entirely overdressed for certain occassions though, so I recently sent this query out into the universe: is it appropriate to wear a floor-length silk dress to work? More importantly, to a place where Converse and khaki pants reign?

For me, I've realized that the answer is yes. I do get a couple of double-takes at the internship for wearing some of the things I do. But I find that I do as many double-takes when I discover just how much Simpsons memorabila a staffer owns, or that the guy working two seats down from me is a competitive facial hair grower.

Everyone is a nerd about their own thing, whether it's fashion, medieval literature, or True Blood. Frankly, I don't think I really want to know a person unless they could be classifed as a nerd. Those passions are the awkward conversation starters, and I for one know that I don't feel nearly as interesting when I just cover my top and bottom half without any thought. While I do plan on drawing the line at wearing straight-up stripper boots to work, I've learned in these past few weeks that "office attire" isn't so much of a death sentence as it is a general guideline to be entirely messed around with in my current situation.

Because honestly, when you're working two seats away from a champion beard-grower, you've got to bring your A-game in whatever area you can.

CHANGES

Oh hey, guys. You know how I tend to wax philosophic about how nothing is original, especially style, and that I'm totally OK with that. Like, I even think it's cool that everything has been done?

Well, then I guess this makes me the coolest person ever. I got curious and vain the other day, and so I Googled "La Vie en Vogue." OMG, there are other blogs named that.

My e-face was red with embarassment. I felt like Holden was going to pop out of the pages of Catcher in the Rye and spend 30 minutes calling me phony all while alluding to sexual abuse. I would get the last laugh though, because I would tell him that he was my least favorite character in the history of forever, and he would sulk away. But I would still be left with a derivative blog title. So no one wins.

I immediately ran to the drawing board to try and think of new blog names. Why did I choose "skeleton key," which doesn't really conjure up anything fashion-related? Let's list it out.

1) Because even though I joke about the impact that fashion and style has all the time, I honestly believe that (wait for it) fashion is the key to most everything. Kind of like a skeleton key can unlock any door. Try to keep up with these wicked hardcore (and apparently Boston-accented) connections.

2) I have a fascination with keys and keyholes. Last year, I found an antique-y key on our shelf, and I started wearing it on a long chain. It sort of became my favorite piece of jewelry. My favorite book, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, utilizes keyhole imagery throughout, so BAM. I love keys.

3) Having "skeleton key" as a title will finally draw the Halloween-lovin' audience that I've been DESPERATELY trying to tap into.

So there. I know this shakes all of your foundations to their very core, but I promise. We'll get through this. Oh, and I changed the background because I felt like it.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Deep thoughts. So deep that I should probably call them MUSINGS.

--Is is inappropriate to wear a full-length floral silk dress to an internship where business attire = a plaid flannel? I'll find out soon.

--If I didn't like animals so much, I think I would wear leather every day of my life.

--Five-inch heels: hopelessly tasteless, or delightfully tacky?

Monday, October 26, 2009

A secular heaven

Ladies and Frank*, I'm glad to report that I've discovered a tangible heaven on earth. What is it, you might ask? House of Vintage, a stories-tall vintage shop in Portland, OR.

Now, if you're like me, you assume that Portland is full of lovely people in Birkenstocks and tattoos. WRONG. At least on the Birkenstock count. It's full of tattoos, hipsters of every age, AND THE MOST PERFECT VINTAGE STORES EVER.

I have to hold House of Vintage in a higher regard than all the rest, though, because it's where I found The Sweater. Yes, the capitalization is necessary. It combines all of my clothing loves into one convenient garment.

1) It's a sweater. Since I tend to dress like an Eskimo, this is a plus.

2) THE NECKLINE/SHOULDERS ARE COVERED IN SEQUINS. Since I like to be a stylish Eskimo, this is a double plus. It's like I copped all the colors from Joseph's amazing technicolor dreamcoat. And forgive me for veering off the secular path with that remark, but it is necessary.

3) It has a giant hole in the elbow that I didn't notice until I was wearing it and it was pointed out to me. Holes in clothing = instant street cred.

4) It came with a pin attached. A gold butterfly pin, just hanging out above my right boob. Which is the only place I ever want gilded butterflies to be.

5) The base of the sweater is black. So, ya know, I can keep it classy on my bottom half, and keep my top half inspired by The Golden Girls.

6) All of this beauty only cost $9.

Some tried and true thrifters might turn their nose up at that audacious price, but I feel about this sweater the way I think most women feel about their wedding dress. No price would have been too high.

So, in short, I have to thank House of Vintage for making a clothing dream of mine come true. Your store is like a cheap, enjoyable version of Disney World.

*While I certainly don't mean to alienate anyone, I'm fairly sure that Frank is the only gentleman besides my father that reads le blog.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

"We wear our scarves just like a noose..."

"...but not 'cause we want eternal sleeeeep!" See? Regina Spektor's not offering suicide advice, she's offering her perspective on how to wear a scarf.

Whether you wear it like a noose or wear it in a less macabre fashion, scarves are the best way to add warmth and interest to boring, lame outfits. There I go with those pesky, fashion-y statements again. But seriously, whenever I'm standing in front of my closet from the months of October to April, I think: WWSSD? Let me break down the hip lingo for you--WWSSD stands for "What Would Scarf Sally Do?"

Scarf Sally is one of my alter egos, and please, no need to compliment her on the inventive name. My creativity knows no bounds. Anyway, Scarf Sally is a pipsqueak of a girl who only wears scarves. She's small, because some of my scarves are as well, and SS would never leave the house looking indecent. Whenever I'm wearing a tired, basic outfit, I consult SS for a quick moment. We usually banter back and forth for a few moments, and then I realize that I have to go to work, and "why do you always distract me when I just need you to help me pick out a damn scarf?!"

Sorry. But when you have 25 scarves to choose from (TO BE FAIR, most of them are $5 pieces of fabric bought from creepy street vendors in various locations), sometimes you need a little pipsqueak of a girl to narrow down the field. When I'm not feeling the whole "multiple personalities" thing, I go for color, sentimentality, and comfort--in that order. A black and white outfit looks far better with an patterned scarf, or at least a bright color. Please, no one needs to tell you that! And if I happen to be both cold and homesick (for a person or a place), I throw on the scarf I got while in Berlin (ooo, world traveler droppin' the country names) or one that I got from a friend. Finally, if I'm just freezing my buns off, I wear a terribly ugly (but oh-so-snuggly) grey knit scarf and call it a day.

And that, my friends, is the true meaning of Christmas.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Why I love Madeleine Albright

Because as one of the most influential political figures of the past couple of decades, she used her jewelry to convey messages to fellow diplomats rather than see it as a frivolous addition to an outfit. Fun fact: Saddam Hussein's poet-in-residence called Albright "an unparalleled serpent." The next time she met with the Iraqi government, she donned a snake pin. God, if I ever have the opportunity to make that big of a statement with such a small accessory, I'll be thinking of her. Honestly, if you like pretty pictures and pins (two of my favorite things, of course), do yourself a favor and check out Read My Pins: Stories From a Diplomat's Jewel Box.

Now, if only my other feminist hero, Ruth Ginsburg, would publish a book like that. I'm thinking Supreme Style: Big Glasses and Badass Blouses. Eh, eh?

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Viv

I like the fact that none of my stylistic preferences are unique to me--most of them come from celebrities, drag queens, and my family. Lately, I've started to notice that I can thank my wonderful grandma for some of my more ostentatious tastes. I mean, with a name like Vivian Vincent, you've got to be a little flashy, right? I can remember when I first began to look at my grandma as someone who had a distinct style that went beyond applique sweatshirts. It was when we found her and my grandpa's wedding announcement that ran in their town's newspaper.

Truly, I don't remember much about it besides the description of her wedding dress, and more specifically, the pink veil that accompanied it. Now, we're not talking Gwen Stefani punk-pink, but reading that made me smile and think "yeah...grammy knows what's going on." I've thought that several times since--when I found out that she owned and wore gold booties, for instance, and whenever I caught a glance of her costume jewelry collection.

She kept her earrings on this netted board contraption--which I'm making sound far more conceptual and revolutionary than it is--and I loved to just look at them. She had the standard crystal studs and colored hearts, but then I would see the big white shells and neck-grazing Native American beaded danglers, and all I wanted to do was wear them RIGHT NOW and WHY AREN'T MY EARS PIERCED YET?

The best part of her "jewels" and my perception of her style? I don't think that my grandma spent any more time than was absolutely necessary on her looks. She cared about her family and her faith far more than she did about buying a pair of pumps or primping herself. And that's why I love that she still had such silly and fabulous things. She showed me that fashion doesn't have to be one's top priority in order to have fun with it.

Luckily, I now have most of my grandma's costume jewelry. And in its original storage, no less! I have the netted board contraption, an old Oil of Olay plastic box, and an embroidered heart-shaped box full of gaudy treasures that I wish I could have seen her wear more. Instead of wishing though, I snap her silver snake cuff on my wrist and thread the Native American-inspired earrings through my now-pierced lobes and smile. Because that's what my gold bootie-wearin' grandma would want.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

File under "genocide," not "gamine"

Dear Alyssa,

When your short hair starts to grow out and you're stalling on getting it cut, don't part it on the side and smooth it down with boatloads of gel and wax and leave the house. You will not look like a brunette Edie Sedgwick. You will look like Hitler.

Love,
Me

Mama said knock you out!

I'm not a violent person.

I'm a touch emotional, but I definitely err on the passive-aggressive side of the violence spectrum. Because of that, I used to be a little perplexed by why I fall in love with jewelry and clothing that make me look like I'm a member of a chain gang. A heavily stylized chain gang, but one that could cut a bitch nonetheless. However, after weeks of uninterrupted musing on the topic, I've solved my conundrum. I'm about to make a REVOLUTIONARY connection, so as Samuel L. Jackson said in Jurassic Park, hold onto your butts.

I think that because I tend to be slightly timid when it comes to confrontation and conflict, I choose to "dress it out" instead of "talk it out." That's some deeply shallow stuff there. My friend Kevin said it better a couple of months ago. We were out to dinner, and I expressed a concern to him that I looked like a whore because of the shoes I had on. He simply said: "Well, you kind of do. But when you look like a whore, you look like a 'whore.' So it's OK--it's a practiced look."

Truer words were never spoken. Since I love me a good costume, I obviously find it much easier to dress the part of someone who doesn't take any shit than to just be that person. Wearing a leather jacket, massive knuckle rings, and huge shoes allows me to access a space that I don't normally inhabit--one of badass self-advocacy. Do I wish that I didn't need to wear garish accessories in order to stand up for myself? Honestly, I don't really mind that I've taken a decidedly shallow route. Because I've discovered that--again, wait for the revolutionary conclusion--if I've got the moxie to wear something that verges on a foolish get-up, chances are I can speak my mind with that same confidence.

And more importantly, if the confrontation that's stemmed from my newfound badassery takes a turn for the worse, at least I have something really interesting to look at while I formulate a plan B.

While strapping on shoes that look like they belong in an S&M accessory catalog hasn't turned me into a lady who mows down anyone who stands in her way, I have found a ludicrous amount of security in the assertive way I'm forced to walk while wearing them. Because otherwise, I will fall on my face.

Confidently, of course.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

I'm not dead, I'm just busy being attractive.

It's been too long, internets! I missed you so. Mainly though, I just missed talking about shoes. So, without further ado, allow me to selfishly share my latest pur

OMG THERE'S NO TIME FOR CLEVER PROSE! I BOUGHT TRANNY SHOES!

That's right. Alyssa Vincent, formerly of 5'5" fame, can now stand at a solid 5'10" WHENEVER SHE WANTS. And has apparently earned the right to refer to herself in third person. I bought black platform heels that are 5" tall from Charlotte Russe, also known as Where Pre-Teen Girls Blossom Into Pre-Teen Sluts.

RuPaul, eat your heart out.

They're beautiful, and will soon break my ankles. But until then, I'm having a delightful time trying to make them look as effortless and innocent as ballet flats. And my wearing them is helping my mom develop a solid bank of hooker jabs, which is always a plus. Her best so far? "Are you going to work right now? Like, 'work' work?"

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Put on your stockings girl, the night's getting cold

I think that lyric from the Springsteen smash hit "Atlantic City" is fitting when talking about tights. Hmm..."Talking about Tights" sounds like it could be a hit show on QVC. NO IDEA STEALING, READERS.

Where was I? Right. Tights. Words can't explain the hatred I feel for pants. I blame it on the fact that, like 99% of the female population, I can never seem to find pants that fit properly. Or, if by some miracle I do, I'll make the heinous mistake of washing them. Which, as we all know, washes away their perfection. A couple of years ago, I decided to give up on trying to find the perfect pair, and instead devoted all of my efforts toward stocking up on dresses and skirts. However, when you live in Chicago, forgoing legwear of any sort is not really an option from the months of October to April.

What's a girl to do?

Say it with me now--tights. Over-the-knee socks. Thermal leggings. Assless chaps.

OK, maybe not over-the-knee socks. You don't want to look scandalous. But believe me when I say that tights and other assorted leg coverings go a long way when it comes to keeping your gams warm in a snowstorm. I layer patterned tights over solids (so daring, I know), buy some slightly pricier wool pairs, and wear more leggings than Lindsay Lohan. All of those options manage to keep me warm in the winter AND sans pants. Frankly, I have way more fun with legwear than I do with jeans. I mean, I won't buy a pair of sequined aqua jeans--that's just crazy. But sequined aqua tights? 3 pairs, please. For those who find the binding nature of tights to be rather uncomfortable, I offer two suggestions.

1) Stretch them out by pulling the waist over a desk chair. No, they won't feel like your comfiest pair of sweatpants, but your internal organs won't feel nearly as smushed together.

2) My stylish friend Amy whispered these sweet nothings to me the other weekend: low-rise tights. In the words of Rachel Zoe, I DIE. Also, I may or may not be the last person to know about them, because I've found that they're sold nearly everywhere normal granny tights are sold.

Yes, pants have their place in the world. And who knows? I could be singing the praises of jeans if I find the ultimate pair. But until then, me and my "I just came from a Fame-esqe dance class" ripped tights are very happy with one another. I'll save the aqua sequins for tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Kind of like "This Is Why You're Fat," except with shoes.

OMG, shoes. I don’t really have the authority to reference that seminal skit that had EVERYONE AND THEIR MOTHER saying that very phrase many moons ago. I haven’t even watched it. But, every time I look at ShoeLust, the first thing that I think is “OMG, shoes!”

There are a few reasons to go to this site:

1) You love shoes. More specifically, you love ridiculously expensive and audacious shoes that you will never afford. At least not until you inherit a trust fund from the rich great-uncle you never knew you had. Please let this be the story of my life.

2) You realize that when you walk into a classy department store wearing an outfit that costs less than $100, all of the salespeople will alternately laugh at you and assume you’re there to rob them. Unfortunately, the real story of my life.

3) You have time to kill and enjoy imagining the different occasions for which one might wear studded loafers or diamond-encrusted wedges.

I used to think that visiting this site would be a depressing habit, because honestly—who really needs more reminders that instead of gallivanting around town in 5-inch YSL snakeskin platforms, they’re sitting at a computer? However, this site has made me far more creative when it comes to choosing sensible shoes for the occasions in my life. Read: it’s made me disregard the reality of any and all situations I may find myself in.

Much like the website This Is Why You’re Fat makes me contemplate cooking up a batch of deep-fried Snickers pancakes for breakfast, ShoeLust allows me to think that, in fact, I do have an outing that requires 7-inch bondage ankle boots.

Let’s have some examples, shall we? Like, the next time I’m going out to dinner, why not pretend that I’m dining at an intergalactic bar instead of Chili’s? I give you the perfect shoe for that very adventure.

Even though I'm done with summer music festivals until next year, this pair would have been IDEAL. Assuming, of course, that my friends would carry me from stage to stage.

It’s boring to pick out shoes for a plain old date. But choosing shoes for a date with my heavy metal-loving pimp? Things just got interesting.

Remember how I said that tranny shoes were HOT for fall? This website could have an alternate name of "tranny shoe porn." And I'm sure they'd get an even more diverse community of viewers. Take note, ShoeLust.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Where them trendz at?

This one's for you, Kelles Belles. Soon, I will learn to do a picture post.

I would be the kind of person that starts a blog about fashion that just complains about Vogue rather than offer practical advice. No more, though. It's time be where the action is. And the action is telling people what to wear in order to look awesome this fall. Here are my picks for the trends of the season. God, I love trite, fashion-y sentences like that.


A leathuh motorcycle jacket*
*(or, for those of you who didn't watch Stella on last season of Project Runway, leather.)

Since I'm a cheap gal and a friend to animals, I avoid authentic leather. However, I've discovered that when you look like a badass, no one is going to touch your jacket and sneer at its "man-made material" qualification. The runways for fall seemed to have two kinds of looks: "Don't fuck with me" and "Can I get a few more sequins on this? Thanks." A black "moto" jacket is the perfect complement to everything you already own. I favor pairing it with skinny jeans (I like to pretend that I'm a rock star, yes) and dresses. The latter combination will create an air of mystique wherever you go, because everyone will be questioning whether you're going to a nice dinner or a biker rally. It's all about versatility, people.

Don't feel like you have to spend loads of money on this, either. Get yourself to Target, where they're selling a fantastic version in grey and black for $29.99. Or, dedicate some time to flipping through the racks Goodwill. You'd be surprised by how many reformed leather daddies donate their old wardrobes to thrift stores.

Wide-leg trousers
As much as I love a good pair of tight-ass jeans, I adore the silhouette that a decent pair of trousers creates. Google images of Katharine Hepburn if you don't believe me. Wide-leg pants or jeans make you look taller, thinner, and allow you to eat every couple of days without bursting at the seams. If you're looking to take a break from the spandex skinnies, get into a pair of these. Old Navy and Gap are stocking this style--I find Old Navy fits poorly, so I'd invest in Gap. Trust me: if you find a decent pair of trousers, run with them (even if they cost more than you'd like). You'll get a ton of mileage out of this style.
Tranny shoes
From classy to trashy, just how I like it. I was ecstastic to see stripper shoes on the runway this season--from YSL to Gucci, all of the models were teetering on 6"-plus platforms, over-the-knee boots, and heels. Even though I'm an average height, I am a huge advocate of ridiculous heels. Yes, they'll fuck up your knees and back after awhile, but a fantastic pair of heels will save any outfit. Just learn how to walk in them. Honestly, a half-hour spent traipsing around your room in them will save you from looking like you've got a bowling ball between your legs when you take them out on the town. Even if you're six feet tall, I'd give this trashiness a try. Recently, I found the best website ever for cheap-ass shoes: gojane.com. They rip-off designer styles and most of their heels cost less than $20. Time to start struttin'.

Shape
What a ridiculous trend title. It's like saying "color" is back and better than ever (which, actually, it is). But, nearly every single designer focused on two things this season: exagerrating the form of the body, or accentuating it. Blame it on the '80s revival and Mad Men, respectively. I've already lauded Balmain and their use of the strong shoulder. Oddly enough, the sculptural look has descended to the hips as well. Unless you're a model, I wouldn't recommend the dresses with built-in hips that Thierry Mulger recently showed. But, a jacket with shoulder pads creates a cinched waistline without corseting yourself with a belt. Don't worry, you won't look like a dated secretary.
As far as the Mad Men side of things are concerned, thank God for Joan Holloway (played by Christina Hawkins). She single-handedly made boobs and hips attractive again, and designers are showing more flattering shapes (even if they are still on boyishly thin models). So, what does this mean for your wardrobe? NO MORE SACK DRESSES. Honestly. I don't care what kind of shape your body is in--it will always look better if you show off the goods that you do have. Pencil skirts, fitted blouses, and wrap dresses work wonders for easing a person into the world of body-conscious dressing--all of which can be found at anywhere from Wal-Mart to H&M to Forever 21.

Denim shirts
Buffalo plaid shirts may have been all the rage last fall, but denim shirts are the thing to steal from boys' closets now. The key to this style is, as one might guess, not trying to play the "Let's Match Denims!" game. Keep the denim shirt in a light tone, and pair it with a black jean, or at the very least, a dark blue. And to make sure that you don't look like you're about to go paint a house, make sure it's rather fitted. No need to look like a denim hussy, but now is not the time to borrow your Dad's XL number and call it stylish. The boys section of any thrift store is an interesting place to start, but if you've got some money to spend, splurge on American Eagle's flattering version--available online and in stores.
The new cleavage
Yes. There is honestly "the new cleavage." I love the fashion world. It's time to go backless, ladies. Check out Hilary Swank's 2005 Oscar dress for an example in how incredibly chic one can look when covering up the front. This doesn't just apply to gowns, though. Shirts and day dresses have begun to follow suit. In a season where trannies and rocker bitches ruled, there was an underlying mystique to a few dresses. They look simple from the front, but you turn the corner and BAM. Interest in the back. What a terrible sentence, but that's the best description I've got. The best thing about this trend? You don't need to buy it. I've taken to wearing my dresses and shirts backwards, and have achieved the same effect. Cut off the tags, and no one's the wiser. Also, this leads to interesting new takes on accessories--if you need more "interest" in your behind (there it goes again...), trail a long pendant necklace down your back.
Honorable mentions? The classic khaki trench (for when you need to be an alluring detective), matte nail polish, sequins on everything, velvet and lace details, and huge statement necklaces. And of course, what post would be complete without a warning of the trends to avoid? Stay away from harem pants, jumpsuits, denim leggings, and motorcycle ankle boots. You'll be doing yourself a favor.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Anna Wintour, I love you, but you're bringing me down.

Yes. The September issue of Vogue is so bad that I have to resort to LCD Soundsystem allusions as explanatory vehicles.

I've already expressed my disdain for the fact that my bulging arm muscles were not employed while reading it. 580 pages for the fall issue of the premier American fashion magazine is unacceptable. The rag reminds me of when I used to dress up in my mom's heels/fur coat/jewels as a kid--I may have had the aesthetic trappings of an awesomely stylish adult, but I was not big enough to be taken seriously. As much as I tried to put it's lack of heft out of my mind, it was impossible to ignore--especially with such weak content filling it's reduced page count.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we? I enjoy reading the cover lines, if only because I know they're very difficult to write. Personally, my least favorite part of the jounrnalistic process is writing the headline or cover line of an article. Too often, I (and many other writers) resort to alliteration and lame puns (my horrific default) to try and make it sound "snappy." When the first cover line I noticed was "Fall Fashion Fun!", I steeled myself for inevitable dissapointment upon opening the pages. Really, writers? FFF? Nothing about Vogue is fun. It takes itself far too seriously and is far removed from what the American public actually concerns itself with. Oddly enough, that is why it's an institution--it is on a pedastal, and people have expectations of it. Does everyone in the world actually think the Mona Lisa is a riveting, beautiful work of art? Of course not. But if you're in Paris, you're going to go see it because it's important. It is ingrained in our collective cultural consciousness as something that shaped art for the years that followed it's creation, and does still to this day.


I just out-alliterated Vogue writers. How dreadful.


So please, Vogue, don't promise "fun." It's a desperate rhetorical attempt to trick readers into thinking that as long as shopping is fun and good for the soul, then no one needs to worry about saving money. Vogue has taught me a lot of things. Mainly, that budgeting is what ugly people do when they're left to their own devices on a Friday night.

Though, what grates at my nerves more is this: save for one delightfully-themed Alice in Wonderland shoot, nothing in the pages screams "I'm having such a great time! While wearing clothes!" Yes, they're still trying to find their place in a world of ugly budgeters. However, why not use this transition period to...oh, I don't know, use a different photographer to offer a different perspective, or pose models in something other than "jumping artistically to one side"? Most everyone in the fashion industry hopes to work for Vogue one day, so the magazine doesn't need to beg for new talent. The editorial staff just needs to have the courage to admit that they cannot keep resting on their laurels. They must shock and inspire like they so often have in the past.

Often, shock and inspiration come with an intimidating price tag. I oscillate between whether or not Vogue should tone itself down as far as the quality and price of the clothes they use to be "respectful" to the economic climate. It's a tough call to make, and I believe I've mulled it over in previous posts. I air on the side of seeing high fashion as a means of fantasy and escape--therefore, I don't see the point of styling Gap t-shirts in lieu of Louis Vuitton dresses simply because many people can't afford Vuitton. However, in a time where fashion as an art form means making alterations to a $10 thrifted dress rather than buying a Stella McCartney suit for it's exquisite tailoring, I have to wonder how long it will be before Vogue realizes that the pedastal is a lonely place to be. Without a doubt, the magazine needs to turn itself around. Either commit to worshipping the fantastical aspect of clothing and its construction, or become familiarized with the actual sartorial desires of the American public and cater to those.

Oh, and try to make that decision before next year's September issue, Ms. Wintour. I can't bear another disappointment.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

For my millions of fans.

It was brought to my attention that commenting on this blog is impossible. I fiddled, and think it might be possible now.



GO CRAZY, READERS.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Bananas.

Get ready for some shamless fawning over the smallest person alive.

I am completely in love with Rachel Zoe, celebrity stylist. The construction of that sentence would probably be better suited to "Rachel Zoe, private eye," but we'll leave that for when she decides to pursue a career change. If you don't know of Ms. Zoe, here's the skinny (literally): She weighs about as much as my right leg, has got bigger hair than any lion's mane, wears more gold jewelry and fur than a pimp, and when she likes something, she either "DIES," thinks it's "bananas," or knows that one of her clients will "shut it down" when wearing it. Oh, and she styles most of the celebrities that people pay attention to--Anne Hathaway, Eva Mendes, Jennifer Garner, etc.

Those precious sound bytes don't come from a personal friendship with Zoe--UNFORTNATELY--but from her reality show on Bravo, The Rachel Zoe Project. The second season started on Monday, and I won't lie: I've been anticipating it since June. She may be the personification of everything that's screwed up in the fashion world (namely, her lack of concern about eating), but I have to admire anyone who is so passionate about something that people often scoff at. Instead of simply focusing on the dress, the woman doesn't rest until she's found the vintage Van Cleef and Arpels cuff that complements it perfectly. She also possesses an interesting trait that celebrity stylists can often lack: marketing savvy. Zoe has a reverence for fashion, but she also knows that a misunderstood couture dress could land a client on any number of worst-dressed lists.

Case in point: on Monday's premiere episode, she was DYING over a fuschia Chanel haute couture dress that she wanted to get Cameron Diaz to wear at the Golden Globes. However, she felt that the assymmetrical sleeve on the dress made the overall shape too avant-garde for the American public to appreciate. Rather than simply move on and find another dress, she contacted the Chanel house and asked the head--Karl Lagerfield--if he would be willing to CUT THE SLEEVE OFF. Stylists are not fashion designers, and they are certainly not haute couture seamstresses. Haute couture is highly respected and marked by its intricate craftsmanship and the days/weeks that go into making one piece. Oh, and when something is haute couture, that means there's only one. In the entire world.

And Rachel Zoe--who admitted that she cannot sketch, much less sew--asked Karl Lagerfield to lop off a sleeve as if it was nothing.

I'll keep you in stylish suspense as to whether or not Karl did the deed, but the sheer fact that she asked one of the most respected designers in the world to change a dress of his should give you an indication of just how committed to a particular vision she can be.

That kind of commitment to one's craft--even if she's not designing anything herself--will always be in style. Welcome back to the television, Rachel. I know I've missed you.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

BREAKING NEWS

Vogue is clocking in at approximately 580 measley pages. HEAVENS TO MURGATROYD! A mere two posts ago, I claimed that the September issue could almost always be counted on to clock in at around 700 pages. I DID NOT MEAN THE "ALMOST" THAT I PUT IN THAT SENTENCE. I've not seen a Vogue this tiny in all my consumin' years. Everything I once believed in has gone out the window. Full analysis of this earth-shattering situation to come once I've gotten a hold of myself. Gimme a couple of days.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

A galactic version of the '80s cocktail dress? Yes, please.

As I hinted at in my last post, I'm sort of happy that ridiculously overwrought fashion has made a comeback. Yes, the cultural, political, ethical, and every other -al implications of that statement make me cringe from time to time, but I can't help it. I love when designers do what I feel like they're supposed to do--design for the world they wished they could live in. That's why I find it so funny when critics bemoan how "unwearable" a certain collection is. When that criticism surfaces, I'm all the more excited to take a peek at what that designer is offering. A 50-pound tulle confection of a dress, accented by real gold leaves on the bodice? That's EXACTLY what I need when I'm getting married in an enchanted forest! What makes the design world great is the amount of imagination that goes into the conception of the pieces, as well the the imagination of the viewer.

That being said, I'm absolutely loving that nearly every single designer is harkening back to the '80s this fall, but doing so to varying degrees and levels of wearability. One of my favorite designers of the season in Balmain, a French label. Every time I see the insanely exagerrated shoulders, or the absolute abuse of sequins, I let out an audible squeal.

I mean, just look at this. LOOK AT THIS.

AND THESE.


Sigh. Time to go stuff the shoulders of all my clothes with tissues so that I can look cool.

The September "Issue"

Ever since my sophmore year of high school, fall has been my favorite season. My love of the crunching leaves and increasingly cool temperatures was two-fold--since i'm an unapologetic nerd, I loved all of the "back-to-school" hubub. When I wasn't shopping for pencil cases though, I was scanning the magazine racks nearly every day in August so I could snatch up all the fall fashion issue of Vogue.

When people say something like "Vogue is my bible," they're talking about the famed September issue--it's the only one of the year that carries the same physical weight as the Bible. It can almost always be counted on to clock in at over 700 pages, and even if half of that is advertisements, that's still pretty hefty for a magazine. Why all that weight? As is the case with the academic year, the fashion year starts in September. That's right. January. No one really likes you.

Last year, though, thanks to the pesky recession reeling its head, editor-in-chief Anna Wintour had to get "creative." I say "creative" because except for the few Depression-era photo spreads the magazine has featured and the occasional $220 watch in place of the $2,200 watch, Vogue has not done much to bring itself down from its gold and diamond-encrusted pedastal. When a magazine works as hard to set itself apart from other magazines in terms of class, a little thing like a recession isn't going to be something they become concerned with.

However, the fall 2008 issue of the magazine did have some pithy "money-saving" ideas--this may have been where the insufferable "shop your closet!" idea came about--and the page length had drastically been reduced. The fall 2007 issue was 840 pages, and the fall 2008 was a measly 798. That may not seem like much of a difference, but it followed a trend that most fashion designers had resigned themselves to--minimalism was in, and it stemmed from a necessity, not from a desire. If there's anything that designers seem to hate, it's being forced to change their vision for a collection, rather than wanting to change.

So, what can we expect from Vogue this fall? If the fall collections are any indication, it's this: designers have been polite to the economic crisis for an entire year. So...it's time to party! Sequins! Huge shoulders! Alligator shoes! F**k you, recession--the worst is over, right? RIGHT. If we just cover our ears with our $1,000 clutches, we won't hear that we're still not entirely out of the woods yet. And maybe, just maybe, the return of fashion and the eschewing of frugality will be just what this recession needs.

Maybe.

Friday, August 14, 2009

I like you so much better when you're naked.

People need to tell me this more often, especially in these horrifically sweltering temperatures. It would make my sartorial choices so much simpler.


Yes, I'm aware it's August. And Chicago has had a surprisingly mild summer, so I should shut up. NO. I despise most things about heat, and the only thing that makes it better is the breeze my fingers create from flying across the keyboard while typing a heated rant. Sure, it's fun for the first few days, but then I start sticking to all sorts of surfaces, I'm sweaty, and thanks to the fact that my ghostly complexion knows no hues other than "Powder" and "What Up, Lobster?", I don't look easy, breezy, or beautiful from the months of June to August. Gross is the word that comes to mind for a description.

Now, I'm extra upset because I'm trying to figure out what to wear into the city tomorrow. My lovely friend Zac and I are meeting for a matinee (by the way, I'm 65 years old), and then wandering around in 87-degree heat. He's handsome as all get out, so I need to look decent so as to not embarass myself. But, because my fashion sense wilts along with everything else in this weather, I'm planning on royally embarassing myself. Current outfit options include a nightgown masquerading as a dress by layering it on top of...another nightgown, a criminally tiny t-shirt dress that will SURELY offer everyone a delightful view of my baby-makin' parts when the Windy City lives up to its name, and a bathing suit. Masquerading as nothing other than what it is. And this, my friends, is why fall needs to hurry up and get here. I own upwards of 25 scarves, 10 pairs of tights, and a whole mess of cardigans. All of which need to be worn soon, because my creative styling juices are gone. GONE, I SAY.

Help a sister out, Mother Nature. Send me 50-degree weather, and I swear I'll look adorable every day to thank you for it.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Remember that I love you

How dare I ignore the internet for so long! It's like I don't even care about the needs of my (two) dear readers. Though some personal poop has kept me away, I rushed back to discuss something of utmost importance to me--comfort clothes.

You see, when the proverbial shit hits the fan in my life and in the lives of my beautiful friends, clothings and aesthetics manage to become both more and less important. In the "more important" corner, I do the whole "shop away your feelings" thing. Since emotions are high during these sprees though, I come away with purchases that are a touch extreme, even for my tastes--like this gloriously gaudy two-finger peacock ring. Yes, that will be mine in 2-8 days. And I will wear it with everything.

In the "less important" realm, all I want to wear are paint-stained jeans, Hanes tank tops, hilariously large basketball shorts (Michigan State, thank you very much), and sweatpants (Go Eastern Illinois University!). As someone who concerns herself with fashion and personal style, it may seem like I should abhor any item of clothing with "sweat" in its description. Or for that matter, anything with the name of a college written across the ass. However, I still say that I'd rather have my bootay support higher education than "Juicy," or something along those lines.

But, in these rough economic and emotional times, sometimes the best thing you can do is throw on the comfiest, softest thing you can find, and save your aesthetic energies for another day. For me, "another day" means "the moment that peacock ring arrives in my mailbox." From then on, depression be damned! I'll be wearing sequined prom dresses to live up to it's flair.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Ahoy hoy!

Thanks to my web-literate friend Kelley, I've got me a new template for this blog. I tried a simple, rather stunning one of a girl in a puffball tutu, but the ship headdress won out. As someone who once wore a sequined bird in her hair, I have a crippling weakness for awkward headpieces.

She may be a cartoon, but hot damn! Fuck navy boatneck t-shirts and anchor necklaces--you ain't done nautical 'till you've adorned your head with a ship.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Two (posts in one day? You lucky dogs!)

I’m absolutely obsessed with duos. Whether they be in music, film, or fashion, I cannot get enough of two people complementing each other. Though I fancy myself quite the cynic, I’ve got the heart of a hopeless romantic in regards to pairings in pop culture. I know that I’m missing some major ones, but hey—we’ve all got our preferences. When it comes to twosomes, I’ve got three favorites: Bob Dylan/Joan Baez, Andy Warhol/Edie Sedgwick, and Jamie Hince/Allison Mosshart.

Bob and Joan (Boan? Cue immature "bone" joke)

Much to my chagrin, I’ve recently started listening to Bob Dylan. And by “started listening to,” I mean “he’s replaced all of the CDs in my car, and space on my iPod.” I used to think that I was quite the cool kid for resisting his acoustic charms, but recently, it’s become difficult to hate the man.

I think that he holds even more of a fascination for me because of his tempestuous relations with women. Anyone obsessed with Dylan’s life probably has their favorite girlfriend/wife of his, and of course, I’m no different. I’m siding with Joan Baez, the sweet lady of folk. They were together in the early 60s, and after Googling some photos of them, it’s safe to say that I wish I could have been their awkward third wheel.

Why? Because they are the masters of complementary style. Allow me to clarify. Obviously, when most people think of Bob Dylan, they don’t think of him as a fashion plate who might call Joan up the night before to make sure she’s not planning on wearing HER denim button-down the next day. Hot damn, that’d be a hilarious conversation to hear. Nevertheless, the two managed to always look like they were together, even if they weren’t involved at the time. She had her long skirts, rolled shirtsleeves, and locks perfectly parted down the middle, and he had his earnest-looking jackets, working-class oxford shirts, and that unwashed hair. Since I’m incredibly vain, their musical collaborations have become all the more interesting to me thanks to how good they looked while they sang.

Edie Sedgwick and Andy Warhol

Honestly, when it comes down to it, I don’t really like Andy Warhol’s art that much. I prefer the caricature that he made out of himself, and something tells me that he would take that as a compliment. More importantly though, this will not be the last time I write about Miss Sedgwick on this here blog. Yeah, things got pretty nasty when she got addicted to the speed, but before then, she was simply lovely! Many a time I’ve thought about forgoing pants and just running around in a pair of black tights, a leotard, and massive earrings. Unfortunately, I get to the front door just in time to see my elderly neighbors walking their dog, and I realize that I should cover up my ladybits whilst living in the suburbs.

Moving on: Back in the '60s, Andy and Edie (a classic trust fund baby) were what the kids today would call “besties.” So much so that Edie cut off her long brunette hair and painted it silver to match Warhol’s iconic mane. Seeing pictures of them in their mod wear makes me want to find an awkwardly pale, skinny boy to tote around with me and talk about how FABULOUS things are all the time. Before the speed, of course. Given my love of all things gaudy, her abuse of fake eyelashes, penchant for furs and earrings the size of dinner plates, and her hatred of pants has made her my fashion idol. And frankly, Andy knew how to wear a black turtleneck better than anyone else.

Allison Mosshart and Jamie Hince of The Kills

If you don’t listen to The Kills, stop reading and listen to them right now. I’ll wait.

Alright, one hit of the “return” key equals a long enough time to have listened to one of their incredibly visceral tracks. It sounds like Allison Mosshart is trying to have sex with the whole world, and when they play live, she looks like she wants to eat Hince’s face. This ridiculous sexual tension is made all the better by their unapologetically rockin’ clothing choices. First off, they both look perpetually dirty. Her hair is always mussed to the perfect degree, and he looks like he just rolled out of bed (after fucking for 3 hours). His wardrobe of tight-ass black jeans, button-downs, and leather make him quintessentially cool. Mosshart channels classic female rock stars with her reliance on leopard-print, scuffed up boots, and tons of scarves and jewels. They look exactly how they sound, and in a time where most people just throw on an American Apparel t-shirt and call it “hipster style,” it’s incredibly refreshing to see people look like filthy rock stars.

Belated "Hello, interwebs!"

I’m no good with introductions, transitions, and the like. More often than not, if I’m visiting old friends and bring along new ones, the newbies are forced to introduce themselves, because I get caught up in a conversation for about 10 minutes before I remember “oh, right, you two don’t know one another. How odd.” My lack of social graces in real life plague me on the internets as well—I posted an entry on my brand-spankin' new style blog and waited nearly a month without properly introducing myself. I'm sure the suspense is killing you.

Let’s run down some basics, shall we? Name: Alyssa. Occupation: Copy editing at an educational publishing company—yes, it’s as thrilling as it sounds. Interests: style, music, drug-addled starlets, and photographs. Sort of kidding about the drug-addled stuff. I just really like Edie Sedgwick.

When it comes to my obsession with fashion, I completely blame my dad. He went to school for a degree in textiles, and works at Saks Fifth Avenue selling gorgeous clothes to outrageously rich people. Growing up in a house full of books about Chanel and Balenciaga with a father (and mother) who could sew with the best of them certainly had an effect on me. I love quite a few things in the world, but two that top the list are writing and pretty things. SO, my snobbily named blog was born. What? I always wanted to be French, and also, I figure this beautiful language can lend me some class when my love of Jersey accents, huge jewelry, and penchant for swearing reveals itself. In due time, children.

Since all I do at work is sneak peeks at fashion blogs anyway, I figured that I would try my hand at writing my own. Because really, what’s cooler than sneaking a peek at yourself while at work? Nothing, I tell you! Sincere thanks for stopping by, and COME BACK SOON.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Stylin' chanteuse


Natasha Khan
Originally uploaded by obscur_alyssa
Can we talk about Natasha Khan for a moment? Whether you know her as Bat for Lashes, or---BLASPHEMY--don't know her at all, one look tells you almost everything you need to know about her. She's equal parts whimsical, stunning, and eccentric. In a land of black skinny jeans or ripped tights and tunics, it's refreshing to see someone wear a lion's mane around their neck with such grace.

In all seriousness though, Khan serves as a reminder to all singers out there--music doesn't have to be your only art. Beyond her ethereal tones, this lady's style is one of her most compelling attributes. She may be poutin' in this picture, but you better believe it takes a solid amount of optimism and confidence to stare at a pile of peacock plumes and think: "of course! I was looking for a backpiece to wear tonight ANYWAY!"

Here's to you, Natasha. May you inspire the masses to break out of their tired routines of buffalo plaid boyfriend shirts and ballet flats.