As I wrap my mind around it like some unreal fantasy, I realize the thing about closets is that they contain much more than clothes, shoes, and handbags… apparently they store our lives in a fashion nutshell.  The pair of jeans we refuse to surrender, the t-shirt worn only in the company of our laptops, the torn and tatty sweater we forgot we owned, and even that hideous pair of heels that while the 80’s called and said they want them back… vintage really isn’t the appropriate word. Okay, there might be ramifications to these actions but let’s face it… it’s going to take more than a militia of angry fashion mobsters before we ever throw in the towel on all our favorite things.  With that said, I suppose it’s true that while some depend on the sanctuary of comfort food, given the circumstance, this is really a cut and dry case of comfort clothes and shoes. 

So, after that late night dinner party I aforementioned, and several cocktails later, I started rifling through my closet, one of my natural habitats.  And I couldn’t help wondering why I was hoarding all these items like some dirty little secret.  But most importantly…  I couldn’t figure out when (exactly) I’d managed to collect all of it. Anyway.

* Yesterday is gone…  and today will never return.

* As the weather warms to near 80 degrees from last weeks somersaulting 30-60 degree variances, another Midwest conundrum leaves meteorologists in a state of wonder.  A rarity among the norm of March’s suburbanite ambiance, the sky seemed to split like two halves forming a sun-drenched gateway… through the spread of blue, it finally warmed. Taking into account the shameless reality that had me suffering from post-traumatic cutoff syndrome, we canted about in perfect misdirection, which somehow led us back to the camera euphoria of this disco-inferno bowling alley.

* Sometimes peanut butter and jelly makes everything else better… but she won’t admit this in public even though she wears ballerina tutus. 

* I’ve been contemplating joining Twitter but can’t help thinking that it’s just the weirdest word, and the more I say it the more it lacks meaning….  Twitter, Twitter… whatever, moving on.

* Like some dark plague lurking with its twice-yearly appointments, I try to avoid it… but today I muster around that familiar/highly relevant/impending feeling of dread, because dammit, I hate going to the dentist.

* Okay, back to work…

All the things we’ve ever been told about love and life are in some cases, probably true.

Love is blind.

Love hurts.

Love holds no grievances.

Love and life sets without boundaries. 

Life is what we make it… and love generally happens when you least expect it, as much this is true about life, or so the disciples say.  Tough love, on the other hand, is an entirely different story, possibly. 

But when all these romance antics fall apart at the seams, when it’s not one thing… it’s six others, and your love life takes you from blissful to blasé… we being the clever women of the world, seek out truth, not merely versions of it.  For some ungodly reason, we’ve become desirous for that cold, hard, brutal honesty… well, most of the time anyway. 

And one begins to wonder…

What do the clever women of the world do in this paramount, mission provoking, and slightly unadulterated pursuit of love, sex, and practicality… we buy shoes.

If there’s one thing I know about relationships, it’s that they take time and several bumpy mistakes along the way.  And when they (the mysterious experts) tell you life’s coming up roses, sometimes a girl needs a garden to prove it… but it obviously doesn’t lend to the storefront of romance, flowers or not. 

(For the record, the outfit to your left is fantastic… just my style!!!)

These long distant, text messaging, e-mailing, and phone calling moments once deemed LDR’s are now commonly referred to as the romantically challenged. 

The love handicapped or dare I say, the erogenously disadvantaged. 

So, in my near Diet Pepsi/Popsicle combination-coma, I being a writer, found time in the saga that it is my life to aesthetically unwind, reboot my mental hard drive, nurture my wanton internet compulsions, and yes of course, to stop to smell the… designer bonanza better known as Sex and the City.

Someone commented the other day on the means in which taking breaks from our everyday lives (even for something as simple as coffee) actually encourages further inspiration… and I’m thinking I agree.  I call it outside-in perspective.I worked, as usual.Took a break, as usual. Spending the better part of the surly afternoon with loved ones, we casually roamed the city streets… mingling the sidewalks of familiar vintage boutiques.  But, I somehow, convinced myself that this spontaneous reprieve would produce something of the carefree.  Yes and no.  I’m not complaining about having the opportunity to take a break but I can’t splash around like some cyberspace confessional either.  Seriously, this isn’t Bridget Jones Diary! 

It was more the wishful thinking that once I returned to the grind, I would feel better… confident.

Walking the downtown city streets makes me wish I were in New York.  It’s something about taking an official pardon from the suburbanite ambiance that ignites an almost nostalgic feeling as skyscrapers tower so far above, swallowing everything else below. 

Faces I’ve never seen, 376859 conversations muddling into the background while groaning engines and blaring horns pulse into the fading bass of car stereos.  Lolling about the Loop is always something of the unexpected as vendors, boutiques, vintage shops, and eclectic wonders commingle with the cultural stream.

Note to self… Blueberry Hill is great.

Threading around the cappuccino/pastry perfume that billows from the bustling sidewalk cafés, the couple sitting next to us is having a heated argument… fueled by something everyone tries to ignore. 

But of all the places we (my mother and I) could have gone, I wonder why we always end up with expensive latte concoctions in hand, reading interesting paper cup rants. 

The way I see it… I’m thinking, Starbucks, you gotta love it.

 Read Untailored at http://www.fashion.today.com

Last night after having a drink or three, I miraculously rediscovered the invariable chicness of several items secreted inside my wardrobe, which for the record definitely noted a Je Na Sais quoi feeling. 

You can also find me here… http://www.vintagelollipos.blogspot.com 

http://www.fashion.today.com

Sometimes you just gotta laugh… it’s better than the alternative.

This is basically much ado about nothing, so I’ll start by mentioning that Labor Day weekend was uncharacteristically blasé.  You have no idea how balmy this day (photographed above) really was, and the lack of airflow was nearly suffocating… but I had to get some shots.  As a result, I spent last evening defaming the sordidly squelchy weather for the ruination of what would have been a round of great images, robotically blogged about… nothing, and then fell asleep while watching In her Shoes for like the millionth time. 

I’ll have to see what I can do about the images and save as many as possible, albeit this one’s not too bad.

It was something of an exciting morning as I finagled additional wardrobe pieces into my overtly satisfied walk-in, and for the record, I’m learning to develop immunity to the stereotypical verbiage, better known as the fashion-gripped.  Those chillingly lucid moments and I begin to realize that I’m not going to please everyone, and that’s that.

Jacket, F21.  Heels, Bandolino.  Dress, NM.

for more photos, fashion(-y) goodness, and girl musings!

Last night while maligning a leather skinny belt for not having enough holes, robotically blogging, frivolously chatting on the telephone alongside a bit of cell phone texting, and catching about five minutes of Gossip Girl… a spontaneous burst of creativity ruptured like some fated supernova explosion.  I suppose some things really are written in the stars, as I prepared a requested manuscript proposal for a ‘god I hope you’re the one’ literary agent.  I’m keeping my fingers crossed, and everyone else’s that dares to cross my persistent warpath.  For years, (insert confessional) I’ve been utterly career-obsessed… appreciating the thin plot lines of the mundane and desperately longing for a reinstatement of faith. 

We shall see…

Shorts, F21. Heels, Jessica Bennett. Halter, random.  Edwardian shirt, Voila. Bangles, vintage.

My other artistic release.

V-neck, F21. Tank and skirt, Wet Seal. Bangles and handbag, Vintage.  Boots, Calvin Klein.

Don’t forget to check out www.fashion.today.com and www.vintagelollipops.blogspot.com

for more photos, fashion(-y) goodness, and girl musings!

Part two… Ode to the Writer Inside

Since I aforementioned that little creative voice, who is obviously an insomniac, rendering me a narcoleptic artist at times…  I confess I’m no Stephen King, mind you, (obviously, I’d rather be a woman) but I’ve come to certain realization in a not-so-abrupt approach that I don’t need to be.  But these editorials, personalized for the sake of voyeuristic-blogosphere tendencies and musing aspiration feel less vainglorious if presented with hints of entertainment. 

That’s why we do this, isn’t it?  In hopes that someone in the world will actually read and appreciate our ranting.

So, even now, I’m sitting beside a barrage of precocious folders, which appear to be vomiting veritable triumphs… marking my career ambition with labels doused in black marker… internship/freelance/novels/shorts/poetry/submission/rejections/and children’s literature.

Phew, but while a dolmen reminder lingers like some fatum oracle without answers, thinly disguised as my everyday normality…  I learn that life is one vertiginous baby step, after all.