Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Autumnal


hat, Goorin Bros / dress, vintage / jacket, vintage / bag, vintage / boots, Clarks


Despite the chill, I thought it'd be nice to head outside and show you all my favorite spot in Chicago. I've spent hours this summer running down this soft gravel path with my dog, Ramona. It's one of the few places in the city where you can actually feel alone for a minute. Sometimes I kick off my running shoes and run through these trees barefoot. I get some funny looks for doing so, but it really is the best feeling. When people tell me that they hate to run or can't stick with it because they get bored, I tell them to try it without shoes. You'll not only feel like a kid again, but it's hard to get bored when you're on the lookout for sharp objects and dog shit. 

I'll move on to the outfit before I wax poetic about distance running again. While I hate fall and the majority of things that come with it (pumpkin-flavored everything, my plants dying, cold hardwood floors, having to listen to everyone talk about how much they #omglovefall...) I will give three cheers for hat season. I was lucky enough to nab this one at Goorin Bros sample sale, where some kind strangers and I took turns telling each other, "Now that is the hat for you. Seriously, it looks so good." Hat people are a special breed, and I'm starting to believe you're either born one or you aren't. Take my brothers, for example. The second you put a lid on their heads, it invokes hearty belly laughs from everyone within in a three-block radius. They just look, I don't know, goofy I guess, and because they know this they cringe at the very suggestion they put one on. My husband, too, looks funny in hats, taking on the air of an old timey umpire or a very nerdy and embarrassing dad. Whether it's genetics (it's not) or my deep appreciation for quality cranial attire, my hat collection is what's going to get me through the winter. Well, hats, The Walking Dead, and lots of red wine.



Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Woody


shirt, jacket, belt, bag, and hedgehog collar clips (squee!!!), vintage / glasses, BonLook / jeans, Levi's / shoes, thrifted Cole Haan

You know what's really awesome about no longer having a 9 to 5 gig? Matinees. You'd think it would be not having a boss, but no, the best part about working for yourself is having the freedom to spend an afternoon with your husband and Woody Allen in an empty movie theatre. Yesterday we went trekked to The Logan Theatre to see Blue Jasmine, which I think made me more uncomfortable and anxious than Gravity. In a good way! He seems to have reached another prime in his advanced age, and his writing has a refreshing sense of urgency. He doesn't waste time to get to the raw stuff. Don't get me wrong, I love the famous Woody Allen banter as much as the next nerd, but it's the take-no-prisoners style of editing, the pared down, sparse, leave-nothing-but-the-crucial-shit writing style I love the most. To me, being able to be honest with your work and be strong enough to make the necessary cuts is what separates the goods writers from the greats. I suppose that's why you won't find any Jane Austen on my bookshelves. I won't deny that Mr. Darcy makes me swoon, but had Elizabeth Bennet and her sister had just told those guys that their wishy washy behavior wasn't cute and if they didn't stop wasting their time they were going to bed a couple of hot soldiers, I would have liked the story a lot more. I digress. The point is, Blue Jasmine was great and Woody Allen needs to adapt Pride and Prejudice. 

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Style Inspiration: 1940s









Lately I've been really drawn to the stylings of the 30s and 40s, especially all the menswear-inspired stuff ladies were wearing. The way their perfectly rolled hair and painted lips balances their trousers, blazers, and brogues just kills me. I'm also eager to try a look like the second photo. It's like a fashion mullet. Ladylike on the bottom, masculine up top. And being from southern Indiana, you know I can't resist a good mullet. 

Thursday, October 3, 2013

Scouts


hat, vintage / silk blouse, vintage / shorts, AA / platforms, nicole / bag, vintage Coach / sunglasses, Anthro / belt, vintage








I love uniforms. From the time I entered kindergarten to the day I threw my graduation cap into the air I wished my schools had required them, but they didn't, so I joined activities that did. First came Girl Scouts, which is what this outfit reminds me of. I was so excited to become a scout and loved collecting all the camping gear I'd need to survive (and look cute) in the wilderness. But then, something horrible happened. I went to Girl Scout camp. When my cousin and I arrived everything appeared as I'd always dreamed it would; there was a lake for endurance swim tests and sailing lessons, hundreds of acres of woods to explore, and stables of horses just begging to be nuzzled. Just as I was planning what color wool socks I'd wear on my first hike, a startling figure darkened the doorway of the mess hall, silencing all of the campers without saying a word. That figure's name was Opis, and he, or, she, was my camp counselor. 

I say "he, or, she" because it wasn't clear what gender Opis was, or even identified with. Because of her giant breasts we settled on "she," but her six foot tall frame and thick five o'clock shadow was nothing we'd ever seen on a woman before. To an 11 year old who had a very limited understanding of the gray area of the gender/sex scale, Opis was intimidating, fascinating, and terrifying. I don't think we campers would have thought much of her beard had she been kind to us. After all, we were sprouting hair in new places, too, but Opis had the persona of a bull. Leave her alone and she'd remain aloof. Ask her where the extra milk cartons were for your soap candle project and she'd snort and stamp her foot, ready to charge if you pushed her further. 

Day after day we campers would line up single file, march to breakfast, march to our assigned actives, then march to dinner. It started to wear on us in different ways. My cousin and I wrote tear-stained letters home, begging our parents to come rescue us. The girls in the neighboring tent took advantage of Opis' neglect and sought refuge in drugs, or what they thought were drugs. Their plan to roll up marijuana leaves they found in the woods and smoke them backfired when it turned out they didn't know what marijuana leaves looked like, and smoked poison oak leaves instead. We woke up the next morning to the sounds of ambulances rushing towards the clearing by our tents, and the girls were taken away on stretchers, not to be seen or heard from again. 

Not that I stuck around to find out. The poison oak incident was enough to get my mother to take my cousin and I home early. On the way home, we stopped at Dairy Queen where I sucked down an extra large, lemon-lime Mr. Misty, listening to my mother fill me on all of the stupid things my brother had tried to do to my room since I'd been gone.  

"So, are you done with camping forever? my mother asked. 
"Oh, probably," I mused. "But I really like all the accessories."