Tuesday, July 19, 2016

A Makeover



The first day of 7th grade. In the weeks leading up to that moment, I would ride my bike past the middle school, which dwarfed my puny, safe, single story elementary school. This new school had three floors and a basement to navigate, not to mention a new wing complete with a wind tunnel for testing the aerodynamics of the cars I'd make in shop class, a swimming pool I'd have to wear a bathing suit in, in front of other people, and a giant glass encased cafeteria filled with 20 foot long tables with seemingly endless chairs, one of which I would have to claim as my own. Staring up at the dark, vacant windows of my confines, I knew that something would have to change if I were going to make it on the inside. Since I already tried legally emancipating myself from my family to no avail, there was only one thing left for a powerless, 12 year old girl to do. I needed a new look.

Back at home, I sprawled across my sunflower printed sheets and began circling things in the Delias catalog. Though I lived in a small town in southern Indiana, I related to the models' chill, West Coast vibes. I wanted to be both a Valley girl and a surfer. The kind of girl who could pick just the right necklace to wear with that sweater, but who also could keep up with the boys on the half pipe. I was cool, hip, effortless, and meticulously styled, all at once. Or so I desired. When I had drawn circles around nearly everything from baggy burgundy corduroys to a sequined lavender gown, my mother told me to narrow it down to three outfits. This was obviously unfair, as I was her only daughter and dressing me well should be her main priority in life. Andy could wear Alex's clothes when Alex outgrew them, so it was really like they only had to pay to dress two kids, so it makes sense to give Andy's clothes allowance to me. It was a failed and ignoble attempt. But it was time to focus. I was going to have to say goodbye to a lot of excellent pretend outfits and find the most perfect one for the first day of school. After cutting out a dozen or so skirts, sweaters, button downs, and t-shirts and arranging them into tiny paper outfits across my bedroom floor, I had it. The. Ultimate. First day of middle school. Outfit. When it arrived in the mail, I hung it up together on my door, so that it looked like an invisible 12 year old girl was leaning against my closet. I stared at it as I fell asleep, dreaming of the instant fame I would inevitably receive as Northside Jr. High's best dressed student. "Oh this old thing?" I practiced saying to admires in my head. "It's just something I threw together last minute. Thanks though, you're sweet..."

The morning of the first day of school I descended the stairs like a queen entering a ball in her honor. Everything looked just the way I envisioned. In my hair, which I had smoothed free of its natural frizz and flipped up at the ends, I donned a black and white herringbone headband which exactly matched my herringbone mini skirt with attached gold chain belt. For a pop of color, I wore a pale yellow button down with three quarter length sleeves. On my feet, white knee high socks and black patent leather loafers. I was not allowed to wear makeup yet, but I found the Dr. Pepper flavor of Lip Smackers tinted my lips just enough to look like I was.

"Alright Mom, let's go." I said, floating past her toward the door.
"Not so fast. You're walking today."
"What?!"
"I have to drop Alex and Andy off at their schools. You'll be fine. Look, there's the Trace girl, go walk with her. Go, now, you're going to be late."

In my town, a school bus didn't pick you up if you lived within a mile of the school. The distance between my house and Northside? 0.9 miles.

By the time I got to the school's front steps, I was drenched in sweat from the late August heat and my feet were killing me from my new, stiff shoes.
"Hey Lora!" My friend from elementary, Shaye, was waving from the main entrance.
"What the hell are you wearing?" She asked after I ran over. "Nothing, it's new." I said, brushing it off with my hand, and we walked inside.

Immediately I was in awe with how many kids could be legally crammed into a single building, and each one of them was staring at their class schedules, trying to find the way to their homeroom. Mine was on the third floor. After parting ways with Shaye and finally finding the stairs, I noticed that my socks had fallen down in all the hurry, and my already mini mini skirt was creeping up with every step, so I had to walk with one hand on the railing, and the other tugging down my hem. Starting to panic, I got sweaty again, which left embarrassing evidence on my pretty pastel blouse. The humidity had ruined my perfect smooth locks, and now my head looked like a giant, blowing tumbleweed. I was so physically uncomfortable that I knew everyone around me could sense it. In my mind they were all staring, snickering, laughing at the girl who looked like an extra from the movie, "Clueless." And not even one of the cool extras, but one of the extras they blur out. The warning bell sounded, which meant we had five minutes before we needed to be in homeroom. I had a decision to make.

After attendance was taken, a girl named Heather, who was sitting behind me, tapped me on the shoulder.

"Hey," she said. "I like your frog t-shirt."
"Oh, thanks." I said. "Cool hemp necklace."
"Thanks! My friend Audrey has one, too. You should meet her!"

I left my first day of middle school with a handful of new friends, an armful of really heavy books, and a backpack stuffed with the most ultimate first day of school outfit. You see, when the warning bell sounded before homeroom, I made a beeline for the bathroom, where I immediately changed into the Peace Frogs t-shirt and boot cut jeans I packed, just in case. Because sometimes, when you're trying on a new version of yourself, it's best to have the old one stashed away, just in case you need her. And maybe you'll realize she wasn't really so bad to begin with.








Monday, March 28, 2016

Waiting for the Alligator

Every year at the end of September, just as we were getting into the groove of a new school year – a new teacher, new classmates, new subjects – my parents would pluck us from our scholarly responsibilities and routines to drive us eleven hours south to the Florida panhandle. The weather in Panama City was best at the end of September, they said. Besides, it's not like you're saving lives. It's the second grade for god's sake.

Our insistence to be in class ended the moment we opened the sliding door to our family’s rusty red minivan and felt the warm ocean air caress our cheeks. This was before the Internet, Netflix, and iPhones, so Alex and I did what kids used to do. We played outside, all day long. When the sun came up, my mother would slather us with cool sunscreen that made us shiver and squirm. Knock it off or next time I’ll put it in the freezer. When the sun went down, we’d collect our buckets full of the day’s spoils (small crabs and shells, usually) and shuffle back up to the condominium to shovel in dinner just before we’d fall asleep with the door open to let in the sound of crashing waves. 
Once a trip we’d pile back in the red rusty van and drive to St. Andrew’s State Park to walk winding trails around silent lagoons in search for the alligators who supposedly lived thereThe sand trails lead to wooden docks over the water, and Alex would insist we all be as quiet as possible, so as not to scare the elusive beasts. I’ll just sneak over to the edge there and they won’t even know I’m coming. Alex whispers as loud as he talks, which is loud. My father is behind him, making sure he isn’t leaning too far over the rail. Hold your breath, Dad. You’ll scare him away. I have fond memories of our alligator walks, even though we never saw one in our 15 years of trying.

We’re old now, well, older anyway. I am 31. Alex is 29. Another sibling was added to our poorly timed vacations, another set of eyes to help us spot alligators. His name is Andy. He is 22. Our parents divorced almost a decade ago. It was hard on everyone. But Alex was in prison when they did it, so it might have been the hardest on him. He’s been in prison more often than not since he became a legal adult. He’s about to be released after another extended stay. I’m not sure what to feel about that.
Somewhere in our mutual timeline, Alex and I stopped being the kind of siblings who got along, and became the kind who didn’t. He became someone I didn’t know, someone I would have never wanted to know. Though always a liar (What happened to all the Cool Whip? Did you take my Chumbawumba CD? What are all these fireworks for?), his words now reeked with rotten manipulation and stung with venom. Lies became truth in that sometimes he had lied so much he’d actually believe himself, only to lash out yet again when the room grew too small to contain our doubts and accusations and he had to break it down just to breathe. Drug use and theft and more drug use and crimes so plentiful I can't hold them all in my brain at once became the collective ax that that split our relationship. It remains in the pieces we left it in 16 months ago at Mom’s house that Christmas morning. I called him a psychopath and an arrogant, selfish, liar. I can't remember what he called me, and I think I can't remember because I'm too afraid it's true.

He went back to prison a month after that and we haven’t spoken since. For a long time I was able to make myself forget him. I’d do my work and walk my dog and love my husband without caring that he couldn’t have any of those things, and without feeling bad that I could. I stopped worrying about his life, and how he was going to fix it, and if he ever would. I started calling Andy more often. We talk about baseball and girls and our parents and our favorite TV shows. When we visit, we always have a good time. Our relationship is relaxed and easy, which I was actually having a hard time getting used to until I realized that that was how it was supposed to be. 
Alex gets out of prison in one month, so I’m thinking about him again. But not so much about the person he is now as the person he once was. Or is there a difference? I don’t know. I’m dying to know. I have this day dream where we are back on that dock over the lagoon where the lily pads are the size of dinner plates and the air is so still. Shh, you’ll scare him away, he says. I tell him that there probably aren’t even any alligators in that stupid lagoon. But I sit still and hold my breath, trying not to make a sound. And we both wait. Wait for him to show himself, finally, after all these years.

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Goodbye, Bowie.

I don't cry over celebrity deaths. While I feel a great sadness for when one of my favorite idols leaves this planet, it's not like I knew them personally. Hell, I haven't cried at any of the funerals I've attended. Not a one. And it's not because I'm such an asshole. I think. I just don't cry a lot.

That ended today. During me and Ramona's walk, some big, off leash dogs cornered us. Ramona got aggressive, but didn't bite them. It was scary, and fortunately over quickly. As I hurried Mo away when the owner finally rounded up her mutts, I was in such a heightened state of alert and panic and fear that I began to sob. Like, snot tears sob. But my tears weren't over our dog encounter, they were for David Bowie.

Triggered by my heightened state no doubt, all of these memories and emotions flash flooded into my brain. The time I made my little brother a David Bowie mix tape for his 13th birthday that started with "Changes" (puberty joke), and ended with Starman. Smoking pot for the first time while watching "Man Who Fell to Earth." Dancing until the wee hours at Neo, an old punk club he frequented during his brief stint in Chicago. Holding the hands of my best friends at their wedding while singing "Modern Love." From cross country road trips to belting poor renditions of  "Heroes" in my shower, David Bowie has always been there, and I think that's why I'm so upset. His death doesn't feel like a celebrity death, but the death of a dear friend's.

When I got home from my epic sidewalk sob fest, I watched the last music video he ever made, "Lazarus." The opening shot is him in a hospital bed with bandaged eyes, looking pale and thin in a way that was no longer intentional. After a melodic intro, he starts to sing. "Look up, I'm in heaven." I couldn't help but look.

Though terminally ill, he made his fans a beautiful goodbye telling us all that he was okay. He continued to give while he was being robbed. Even if the song was terrible (it's not, of course), the gesture is so pure and good that I can't be sad anymore. Instead, I'm just grateful for this wonderful weirdo's body of work I've enjoyed my entire life, and will one day force my children to enjoy as well (until they graduate college, realize I'm not the total lame ass they always thought I was, and start to comb through Bowie's music and movies with the same wonder and awe as I did).

All I have left to say now is, thank you, David Bowie. I don't believe in heaven, but I will continue to look up and see you in the stars.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

How to Haori



It's no secret that I have a love for the dramatic when it comes to clothes. The bigger the sleeves, the better. Feathers, fringe, patterns, textures, sparkles, sequins, fur, leather, lace, and hardware. I'm for it all. Which is why when I found this 


smashed between a bunch of plebeian Forever 21 jackets at the thrift, I was all


The Kimono has all elements I like in a statement piece of clothing: color, shine, luxe fabrics, and as mentioned above, HUGE SLEEVES (see previous post for evidence of my love of large sleeves). I also love to stock kimonos in my shop, as they're a straight up pleasure to photograph. They can, however, be a hard sell, partially due to the aforementioned drama, but also because we Westerners are just plain unfamiliar with them. In an attempt to spread my love for kimono, encourage more people to wear them, and flex my styling muscles (which haven't been used in a while. I'm currently sitting on my couch in sweatpants and a Cubs shirt), I've put together a few different looks to help you incorporate a kimono with pieces you likely already own. First up...

Kimono Casual

vintage Levi's 501s from Rawson via Shudio, necklaces from Clyde's Rebirth, also via Shudio, thrifted Steve Madden boots, vintage tooled leather purse soon to be in my shop, Goorin Bros hat

Boho babes, you've got to wash that baggy macrame sweater sometime, and when you do, reach for a kimono. It dresses up a classic pair of 501s a bit, especially when worn with a brass jewelry stack that compliments the metallic tones in the kimono's print. And as the outer is an earthy, feel-good green, throw on all your brown leather goods and call your outfit made. Take that, Free People. This outfit is the real vintage deal.

While the above is perfect for fetching coffee and hitting on the cutie at the bookstore, the kimono can be used for dressier occasions as well (like when you finally get the courage to ask out said cutie from the bookstore). Enter...


The Carrie Kimono

1960s dress and 1940s shoes, from my shop 
Why is this look called The Carrie Kimono? Because it looks rather bedroomy to me, and there are wonderfully weird shoes involved. In my opinion, no one has done those looks better than Miss Carrie Bradshaw. I know I'm dating myself with that reference, but she's proven herself a fashion reference not to be forgotten.

For this look I flipped the kimono inside out to expose it's amazingly vibrant lining. Because the jacket lapels flip either way, it doesn't look inside out, and adds a needed dose of color to this little black dress from the 1960s. No jewelry leaves room for a wild pair of heels, which you should absolutely be wearing because look how much leg you're showing, girl! You can't wear flats with that kind of leggage. I forbid it. Also, screw pants. I always said this guy was smarter than he looked.



While that last look would be great for "da club" or the sexy, dark kind of restaurants only young 30-somethings take dates to, sometimes occasions happen during which you need to be covered, classy, and grandparent approved. These would be weddings, showers of all kinds except rain, work parties, and uncoupling ceremonies (everything Gweneth Paltrow does catches like wildfire so I'm assuming we'll all be going to these in a few months). For these occasions, I give you...

The Classy Kimono

1950s dress from my shop, 1950s shoes coming soon, 60s clutch from my personal collection

Since haori jackets aren't belted closed like other kimono (they fasten with little ties on the inside, but don't have to be), those looking for a more fitted silhouette could simply take a dress with a matching belt, and wrap it around the outside of the kimono instead of around the dress itself. This makes the kimono a little more feminine, while it's flowy fabric make a conservative 1950s dress a little less stuffy. This outfit is also comprised of only metallics. Since kimonos are typically made of matte or low luster silk, you can pile on all the shiny things without looking like a retiree going to casino night at the senior center. Also, doesn't it make a much more attractive jacket for evening wear than say, a North Face puffer? Ugh. I'm on a tirade about that right now. People (guys are guilty of this too. Puffers and suits don't go!) wearing their utilitarian outerwear over their fancy outfits. IT. HAS. TO. STOP. 

Whew! Well, there you have it. Three ways to wear the hell out of a kimono. If that didn't convince you to find one of your own, tune in next week for my post titled, *"You'd be Happy and Gorgeous Right Now if Only You Had Taken My Advice About the Kimono WHY DOESN'T ANYONE LISTEN TO ME?!"

*working title

Friday, December 11, 2015

Feathered



(Everything is vintage but the shoes. They're old Loeffer Randal.)


Right after I uploaded these photos I called the salon and booked a hair appointment. I haven't had a haircut in just over a year, partially because I hate getting my haircut but mostly because I don't really notice the state of my hair until someone points in out, but even I can see that it's getting out of control. When your locks are as wide and unruly as this ridiculous jacket's ridiculous sleeves, you know it's time to fix that shit. 

I don't know what I'll do with it yet- probably nothing but a trim. I know we can't blame our mothers for everything, but I swear, a childhood of forced Dorthy Hamills and mullet lites (that's what I call the hair I had from second to third grade. It wasn't quite long enough in the back to be a full blown Joe Dirt, but it wasn't quite not a mullet, either) has made me hesitant to ever changing my hair in a big way. I wish I weren't so scared, as I think it would be awesome to have pink hair, or a side shave with steps, or a mod bowl cut. How do you guys amp yourselves up to try something new? Do you just get drunk beforehand? Do you stop by your weekly fight club meeting? Do you bitch to your mom until she reminds you that bringing you into this world was much more painful than your haircut, so shut the fuck up already? I'm willing to try anything. 

Have a good weekend, dudes. 

Friday, December 4, 2015

Migraines and (Party) Monsters


Goorin Bros hat, Clyde's Rebirth necklace, vintage everything else


Because we are transitioning into a new season, my head has once again turned on me. Today is the first one this week I haven't been woken up by a migraine! Oof. And the thing that really gets me about migraines, is that on top of feeling like your head is trapped under a city bus, you can't even distract yourself from the pain, because all light and sound makes you want to barf. Of all the things I could have been afflicted with, migraines really are the worst for a television lover. I still look forward to getting the flu every few years or so just so I have a good excuse to lay on the couch and work through my "must binge" TV list. Plus, I get to lose five pounds without trying and boss my husband around without having to pretend to feel bad about it. The flu fucking rocks, man. 

Anyhow, I'm feeling better and am pumped to celebrate my best bud's birthday all weekend. Last night while talking to my mom, she was telling me about how she and my youngest brother had been discussing introversion and extroversion in an attempt to better understand themselves. They both hate large groups and have to practically be tied down to stay at a big event for longer than 15 minutes. I already knew this about them, but it was interesting to hear it from my mom first hand. It makes me wonder where my inner party monster comes from. Like, I've been looking forward to New Year's Eve since July. And Jill's party this weekend? I already have three outfits planned AND a sweet gettin' ready playlist to jam to while I attempt to apply eyeliner then wash off said eyeliner because I messed it up, then try to apply it again, mess it up again, then wash it off again and just decide to wear glasses. Good times! A life without parties and dinners out and getting into trouble sounds like an episode of How I Met Your Mother to me (that is: pedestrian and boring). But I am glad we're talking about these things, my family and me. It's easy to stop asking the people you've known forever about themselves, because obviously you should already know everything by now, right? People change, though, and one minute your mom is your mom and the next she's one of your best friends who hates going to the club and you're like, BUT WHY?! And then she tells you why and instead of half listening to your parent's personal matters the way you did in your twenties, you really listen, and sympathize, and understand.

I mean, I still think I was mixed up at birth, being the sole extrovert in this clan of Ron Swanson's and all, but I suppose it's helpful to have an understanding of one's captors. 










Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Kindness of Strangers



 Wearing 1950s jeans, Pendleton 49er jacket, and blouse. 1980s boots and belt.


Hello! It's been a while since dabbled on the blog. That's partly because I go through phases of, "I hate the word 'blogger'" and, "Is this a productive way to use my time?" and, "What does it say about myself that I like to take my own photos then publish them for all the Subway Jareds and Donald Trump supporters of the world to see?" It's also because, during marathon training time, I'm almost never not sweaty or just showered. Basically between the months of June through November, I constantly have wet hair, and I'm not one of those sleek ladies who can pull off that look. Trust me. But yesterday I got a really nice email from a total stranger, who just wrote to tell me she recently found my blog, likes it, and wants to know where should she shop for vintage in Detroit. I couldn't help her with the Detroit thing, but her kind words gave me the nudge I needed to trade in my pajama pants for jeans. When you work from home long enough, there comes that day when you cannot remember the last time you weren't wearing pajamas. So thanks, Jennifer. I needed that. As did my pajamas. I'm pretty sure I heard them sigh with relief when I took them off.

Speaking of nice strangers, Mike and I sat next to one on a plane a couple weekends ago on our way to Philly. Her name is Elsbeth, and she goes to a very good university in Indiana. Not the top 10 party school that I went to, but one that requires SAT numbers greater than one's height in inches. Anyway, the second I woke up from my plane nap, she asked me if we were famous, as we definitely seemed famous, because we looked very "put together." Then she told me I look like Zooey Deschannel (not true, but sweet), asked what I did for a living, then enthusiastically complimented my business card. She was on her way to Scotland, where she was spending Thanksgiving with her family. Though, later she asked us if we thought she could even get to Scotland, being that she just realized her Passport was expired and all. I told her to go for it, as she was too nice to disappoint with the truth. I hope she was able to go, as her plans sounded rad and while all young people have to learn some lessons the hard way, there is really nothing to be learned from the post office passport line.

Now, I know it's not Christmas's fast approach that is cheering my mood, as I'm still very "bah humbug" about that bitch, but these pleasant interactions with kind strangers are not lost on me. Sometimes I see people I want to give a compliment to, or talk to them about the book they are reading, or ask how the hell they managed to get that vat of acid onto the red line (true story), but I never do in fear I'd be bothering them. Though a card carrying grouch myself, I was anything but bothered at these recent uninvited conversations. I rather enjoyed them (I'm still surprised by this though)! Maybe it's time I stop worrying about what it means if I'm a "blogger," or if I'd weird someone out by starting a conversation. So far only lovely things have come from both. 

All that said, a crazy dude tried to steal my camera while I took these photos today. 

#keepitreal