sideshow

Well, aren't they a pair of vicious trollops.

Why yes, yes we are.

stakes are high

This is the face I make when finding out that neither of my two horses placed this afternoon at the Derby. Sigh. Awesome Act didn't live up to his name.


Derby parties require a Serious Hat, obviously. This one includes a costume-jewelry pearl pin, two yards of lace, several packages of feathers, a plastic pony, and more staples and hot glue than you want to really consider.

Hostess Kaye is wearing shoes that match her Serious Hat perfectly.
On me: Derby hat, homemade; dress, H&M; pearls, vintage; shoes, DSW.

blue suede shoes

Susie Bubble got to hang out in Nicholas Kirkwood's showroom.

Yeah, I died at that thought. Swoon.

Also killing me:

All images from Style Bubble

I do think it's worth noting that I don't currently own any blue shoes. This should be remedied, yes?

american girl

Worn last night for a date to see American Buffalo at Steppenwolf with Ruth (and her kick-ass motorcycle boots, which I should take a photo of):

Dress, vintage (Edith Machinist in NYC); satin-trim cardigan, Old Navy; belt, J Crew;
brooch, vintage; clutch, Matt & Nat; cowboy boots, vintage via my mom's closet.

I once had a fabulous boss (hi, Stacey!) who would choose her ensemble for opening-night parties at the art museum to reflect the art in some subtle way. It could be via color, or texture, or a layering of embroidery, but there was always some thematic tie-in between the exhibition and her outfit.
I wasn't consciously thinking of that last night as I got dressed for the theater (it was more like "hm, I can't wear suede shoes in the snow, and I should definitely leave room for post-show snacks in the dress"), but a little bit of Mamet made its way into this outfit. I wouldn't generally describe Mamet as "twisted" (that high praise I leave for Martin McDonagh), but he does have a little bit of pleasant warping (see: Oleanna). Thus: the asymmetrical buttoning of the cardigan. And it's a cheap link for sure, but the "Americana" bit of the theme is handily taken care of through cowboy boots. Plus, on a non-thematic note, the very visible salt stains on these boots are proof that they have become my go-to winter footwear when I cannot deal with snowboots for one more day.

get on the good foot

This was possibly the most satisfying Home Improvement project ever, guys. For three years now, I've been fantasizing about creating a shoe storage system that doesn't involve boots being shoved into the corner of a closet, and lone heels being found under the couch. After this summer's temporary apartment and its built-in wall of shelves, I was on a mission build it better than it was before: we have the technology. ("Technology", in this case, being a laser level and a cordless drill.)

First, the Before. This was just sad:

sigh

And then Ruth and Tim came over last night, heeding my plea for slave labor, and were polite enough not to verbally express their suspicion that I was crazy. Note: if you're installing the big fucking Ikea Lack shelves- the ones that are taller than I am- you do not want to do this solo. Trust me on this. Bribe a friend or two to help you out, or you will want to die.

Now, the glorious After. A place for everything, and everything in its place, and bonus: that place is relatively free of cat hair. Behold!

swoon

Is it more than a little Conspicuous Consumption to have shoe shelves as a main feature of my bedroom? Definitely. But I don't care.

(Ruth and Tim are facilitating my apartment decor, one big favor at a time. First the loan of Ruth's antique Singer to make pillows for my couch, and now their readiness with a drill and a hammer: I feel like I should just hire them both as project contractors. My friends are the best, especially when they prevent me from maiming myself with power tools.)

gaga, ooh la yum

I love Lady Gaga (much to the consternation of my little brother, who I forced to listen "The Fame Monster" three times during our epic drive to Iowa on New Year's Day).

I love cookies.

I love, love, love, love this.

"sweet dreams" should not be played at salsa night, guys.

Dress, vintage; clutch, Matt & Nat; fishnets, DKNY; pumps, Enzo Angiolini.
Dishevelment courtesy four hours of salsa dancing and a bottle of cava.

Edited to add: a few people this weekend asked "so, what's your favorite birthday present/part of your birthday?", and I got to throw my arms around C and say "this is".

The amazing woman on the left in the above photo is one of my closest friends, and I'm so lucky to know her. We hadn't seen eachother since June 2009, and she flew in to surprise me this weekend, all the way from D.C., and we spent a magical long weekend together.
(C, I hope you're reading this right now.)

She really is one of the best, most thoughtful people I know, and has the biggest heart ever. This is the woman I tend to do accidental-twin dressing with, and whenever anyone says "you two look alike!", I'm always beyond flattered: in addition to being brilliant and lovely, she is- as you can see- absolutely gorgeous.

This really was the greatest weekend ever.

love/hate

I am a sucker for year-end recaps. Best of! Worst of! And now, à la Daddy Likey and The Sunday Best, my highly opinionated and likely under-informed list of Five Trends I Hated in Fashion/ Five Trends I Loved in Fashion for the 2000-2009 span.
Oh, man. This means I'm mentally looking back to things I wore in college and cringing so, so hard.

Let's go with hate first, because that's more satisfying. Bonus: I will admit to the fact that I've owned/worn several of these. In no particular order:


5) Vera Bradley bags.

(image via Vera Bradley)

I do not understand these. They look like a grandmotherly sewing kit mated with an assortment of reject fabrics and had a hideous baby. I grit my teeth every single time I see one. I managed to avoid them until 2007, when I noticed a plague of them attacking the campus of my grad school. You made your way into college, ladies. This should indicate you have the common sense not to carry something so ugly.
(Note: one of my best friends has a large weekender-sized Vera Bradley. I love her so dearly, but oh god, how I hate that bag.)

4) Ultra-low rise jeans. Oh my god, what was the world thinking? Was it something like "wow, I wish I had a way to display my bikini waxer's skill, my thong, AND my belly simultaneously?" Because that's the net effect here. Shudder.

(image via makeyourownjeans.com. I would retitle this makeyouownmistakeinpantchoice.com, but that's just me.)

Wow, 2001. I don't miss you at all.

3) Mullet dresses. Party in the front, hey-look-we-have-more-fabric! in the back. I am not a fan.
(I confess: I wore an asymmetrical-hem dress to my own high school graduation in 2000. It wasn't a mullet dress, but the hem rose at a 30% angle from my right knee to my left thigh. It did not look good, and I hate all my graduation photos because of this massively stupid outfit choice.)

(image via designerdesirables.com)

2) Crocs.

(image via Elfleda's Flickr)

Again, I confess: I owned a pair of Crocs in 2007, BUT ONLY FOR TWO MONTHS, AND ONLY BECAUSE I WAS WORKING AS A PRODUCTION BAKER AND I NEEDED SOME NONSLIP KITCHEN FOOTWEAR AND MY RUNNING SHOES DIDN'T CUT IT.
The all-caps-bold was necessary to explain how much owning those shoes hurt my soul. Immediately following my last shift at the bakery, I threw the shoes away and took a hot shower to cleanse myself of their memory.

1) Branded velour sweatsuits.

(image via Slice of Style, who pinpoints this as one of the ensembles sure to attract a douchebag. True, true.)

It's almost too easy a target, isn't it? But I blame much of what went wrong for Britney Spears on that velour sweatsuit she wore immediately following her wedding to K-Fed. When your wedding party is wearing clothes that say "Hot Mama" and "Pimp", you know life is going downhill.



Now, on to a place where things are pretty and make me smile, and like R.E.M., we're all shiny happy people holding hands.

5) The whole resurgence of classic cocktail dresses (and office dresses, and day dresses, and pretty much every costume on the show) and pencil skirts, courtesy Mad Men. I've never seen the show (which, I know, is blasphemous), but the unabashed dress-for-the-occasion bent gives me great joy.

(image via Fashion In Motion, who did a nice series of posts on the early-60's style in Mad Men)

Also, Christina Hendricks is out-of-this-world gorgeous. Excuse me a moment, I'm going to go troll eBay for yet another sheath dress.

4) The knee-high boot.

(so I already own three pairs of knee-high black boots, so what? I don't own this one yet!)

Is this a thing of recent occurrence? I don't recall women wearing the knee-high boots while I was in high school, save cowboy boots: it was more the Doc Martens Age at that point. I think my first pair of knee-high boots was purchased in 2001, and they've served me so well. Something about the tall boot just makes me feel bad-ass and yet put-together: a deadly combination.

3) Skinny jeans. I doubted the skinny jean for so long- I swore that they would certainly make my legs look lumpy and my knees knobby and generally I'd look awful, and then I converted. The transformation happened slowly: I started off with slouchy skinny jeans, and then was sucked into progressively slimmer cuts of jeans, and am now fully committed to Uniqlo skinny jeans. Will we look back on these and go "ugh, what were we thinking?" in ten years? Perhaps. But until that day, I will prance about in these, now that I realize how good this cut of jeans looks with a really good pair of heels.

2) Mid-rise and high-rise jeans. Hallelujah, the backlash to the obscene low rise has saved my brain. A higher rise means that my belly is tucked away safely behind a wall of denim, rather than spilling over the top of my pants like a life preserver. Enjoy your freedom to sit down without having your underwear exposed to the world!

1) Fascinators and all manner of be-feathered, be-netted headbands.

(this one from 1stlove on Etsy. swoon.)

Yeah, they're the ubiquitous hair accessory for a certain species of girl who attends Renegade Craft Fairs, and who secretly toyed with the idea of opening a bubble tea stand/ cupcake shop/ vegan brunch spot, and who is probably dating a drummer. And yes, you can buy them at Urban Outfitters and that's very "inauthentically vintage" and all.
SO WHAT.
You're wearing feathers (or fur or netting and bows) on your head. If that doesn't make you happy and elicit smiles and appreciative nods from passers-by, well then damn it, there is simply no hope for joy in this world. I want a world with more feathers and fur worn on a daily basis.

curry slurry

I tweeted the other day about my what-to-make-for-dinner dilemma--

wait, we can stop right there. That is perhaps the ultimate in Stuff White People Like: twittering about food. Or perhaps the White Whine of the day: "oh no, I have an esoteric assortment of ingredients in my cupboards, please tell me what to cook".
Moving on.

-- and my friend and former boss Stacey replied, with this "recipe" into 140 characters or less. It's less a recipe than a list of ingredients and a suggestion, and it worked out very well. Here, then, is my slightly more specific recipe for Stacey's abundantly healthy dinner suggestion.

You want about a 3:1 ratio of liquid to lentils, regardless of how many servings you're making.

3 cups stock (I used homemade chicken stock) or water or other tasty simmering liquid
1 cup dried lentils
lots and lots of curry powder to taste (I used about 2 tablespoons, I think. I just kinda dumped it in.)
a good dash of ginger just for fun (I used about 1/2 teaspoon, I think.)
3 small-to-medium apples

Rinse the lentils a few times and remove any rocks or other unappetizing bits by straining them.
If you've got a crock pot (and I highly recommend that you acquire one- I love my crock pot), put the lentils in there with the liquid and the spices, and simmer on low heat for six to eight hours. Walk away, get things done, etc.

If you're doing lentils on the stove, put them in a pot with the liquid and spices and simmer, covered, over low heat for about 30 minutes.

Core and chop the apples. Add the chopped apples to the crock pot and continue to cook for about an hour, or if you're doing this on the stove, add them to the pot and cook, covered, for about 5-10 minutes, depending on how mushy you like your apple pieces.


Serve hot or cold. Makes, I don't know, four servings? Depends on how hungry you are.
(Bonus: inadvertently vegan if you swap out the chicken stock for veg stock or water or something, y'know, vegan.)

diamonds on the soles of her shoes

There's a long list of things I never learned in life (formal etiquette, "no white after Labor Day", how to eat a lobster, how to say the alphabet backwards), and new rules that I was unaware of keep popping up. Sparked from a conversation I had with Helen, I now wonder if there's a formal rule about the color of the soles of your shoes.

Yes, really. Is there a Fashion Rule that dictates what color the sole of one's shoes should be, depending on the occasion?

Some background: I fell hard and fast for these satin pumps. You can see why, I'm sure.
I mean, look at them. Swoon.

Helen brought up a doubt as to their propriety, though. It's honestly something I've never thought about or heard of before, but that could very well be due only to ignorance on my part. Her thought is: the tan sole is a dealbreaker.


Not because there's anything wrong with tan, but because she was taught that tan soles are for daytime wear, while black soles (or Louboutin-red soles, for the extravagant) are for evening. The conjecture here is that wearing black stockings with tan-soled shoes looks awkward and undermines that whole "evening glamour" thing that you're going for with the fancy shoes.

Is this a thing? Have you heard of this? Am I a heathen for not knowing about this rule? Is there a "no nude soles for evening shoes" gospel?

I have a counter-point, however.
I think that if the sole-color debate is based on the assumption that one wears black stockings for evening, it's a false premise. I can think of very few situations in which I've worn black stockings (sheers, that is: opaque black tights are a daytime/all-the-time sort of legwear from December through February), and I'd argue that for formal occasions, few women bother to wear stockings at all. When we do, they're most often flesh-toned, and the contrast between stocking color and sole color is therefore a non-issue. The peep-toe option throws more confusion onto this, as peep-toes (more so with formal strappy shoes of all sorts) make wearing stockings awkward. (There are definitely ways to wear tights with peep-toes and look awesome, but I think all those ways are pretty much a daytime look or a casual thing.) I know you can get toe-less tights to expose one's toes in a peep-toe shoe, but that sort of defeats the purpose, I'd think. And strappy formal shoes: what then? Clearly, stockings aren't an option, so do strappy shoes get a pass on the sole-color rule?

Here, for comparison's sake, is a line-up of my more formal shoes. I can't think of many ways in which black satin pumps (center shoe) are daytime shoes, but the sole color remains resolutely beige. The black-soled contenders here are the tricolor satin peep-toes and the black patent peep-toes. Hmmm. The peep-toe component totally throws me for a loop.

What say you, fancy fashion people who know these sorts of things?

the orchid thief

Thankfully, no misdemeanors were committed to obtain the following:

I'd like you to meet my new orchids, Lenore and Hiram. Lenore is a Love Knot orchid, and Hiram is a Tequila Sunrise orchid. They arrived at my house on Wednesday from The Domina, who is amazing and generous.
She also has perfect timing, as my Wednesday has been full of suckage right up until about 7 pm, and these orchids, coupled with cocktails and dinner with the lovely Helen of Ready Steady Go, seriously turned my day around.



(Oh my god, I am such a Cathy cartoon cliché up in here. I just realized that my "boohoo, bad day*, make it better" solution was cocktails, a dinner followed by a second dinner at Big Star, and flowers. ACK.

*seriously, that day was pretty crap, though. A job I'd been gunning for with all I've got called to say I wasn't getting a second interview; the insurance company of the woman that rear-ended me called and informed me that due to some mitigating and probably illegal circumstances, they may not pay me a damn dime for the repairs; then I fell down a bunch of stairs in front of some important people.)


This officially crosses the first item off my Thirty Before Thirty list. Now to practice parallel parking!

it's amazing that i'm not yet morbidly obese.

Unofficially, I have a rule for myself.
I'm not allowed to have eggs, flour, sugar, and butter in the house at the same time. This is for my own good, as if I have pastry basics lying about (do you know how many times I've made late-night-drunken pâte à choux or pâte brisée? yes? you've seen this in action? then you understand), I will start pulling out mixing bowls and looking for some heavy cream and suddenly I've made a tower of cheese puffs or cookies or an apple tart and eaten the whole thing while standing up in the kitchen and eyeing the pile of dirty dishes guiltily.

That is to say: I'll do things like this.


That is a plate of bacon chocolate-chip cookies, and it pleases me. I stole the idea wholesale from Mindy Segal at Hot Chocolate, where magic happens. (I live too close to Hot Chocolate for my own good.) The internet, as always, guides me: I used the recipe from Pete Bakes!, as my mother's chocolate chip cookie recipe, though amazingly delicious in its own right, involves margarine and vanilla pudding mix, and that just seemed wrongful in this context.

Essentially a batch of Pig Candy chopped up and mixed into the Toll House cookie recipe, this is damn good. But it could be better, oh yes. I'd cook the bacon for slightly less time so it doesn't flirt with overly crisping when baked with the cookies, and also pour the reserved bacon fat into the cookie dough before putting in the chocolate chips and bacon chunks. Hell yes, bacon fat plus cookie dough. I did that for this batch, and yeah, I pretty much freaked out with joy.


Next time- and oh, there will be a next time!- I'm going to use the 72-hour chocolate chip cookie recipe and then add in my own layer of bacony extravagance.

To bastardize the ironic-punk-rock slogan seen on bumper stickers of my youth: bacon's not dead, it's just really cool now.

hit me up

I had the whole day "free" today. Originally, the plan was to spend the day in a blissful whirlwind of cooking projects, augmented by yoga and other self-improvement pursuits, before heading out for the night.
Life gets in the way, though. Like when life, two days prior, decides that my stress level dropping below "panic" was unacceptable, and that new stressors must be introduced accordingly.
Something, like, say, this.

Well, shit.

On my way to the grocery this week, I got rear-ended by someone who overlooked the left-turn signal, the turn lane, and my clear intention to turn once the oncoming traffic cleared.
Other than having to deal with the hassle of calling the cops, the insurance agents, and several auto-body-repair shops, that also put a total cramp in my day. All the errands I was to run on the day I got hit were then shafted over to this morning and afternoon, and my god, doing five hours of errands in the car will sap your will to live just a little bit.

At times like this, I need a seriously calming and pleasant diversion. Since killing off the vodka in my freezer before 2 pm on a weekday isn't really socially acceptable, I chose a less-incapacitating pastime for the afternoon.


Bless you, Julia Child. (And bless you, small-town-Nebraska antique store, for stocking a first edition of Mastering the Art of French Cooking and selling it to me for $2. Yes, $2.)
I spent the day roasting a chicken with garlic, beets, carrots, and parsnips, and am now spending the evening sniffing the chicken stock now simmering on the stovetop.
Of course, when roasting a four-pound chicken for one person, concessions must be made. I cannot, for example, wear anything that might indicate how much butter was involved in making and eating this chicken. New favorite flowy shirt to the rescue!

Sheer flowy shirt with rhinestone buttons, vintage; skinny jeans, Uniqlo; favorite grey flats, Steve Madden.
Yes, I am wearing a camisole under this sheer shirt, don't worry. It just happens to be a near-perfect flesh tone for me.

Rhinestone button detail: left shoulder only. Swoon.

bleak house

Cribbed from Maggie at Mighty Girl: Home Decor for the Recovering Goth.

My own goth period* was (thankfully) short-lived, but the unendingly morbid part of my brain is screeching with glee at most of that stuff.

*My punk/ska and disco periods, however, were significantly longer-lasting. Somewhere there is photographic evidence of this. Thankfully, my parents do not own a scanner. Though I did cut a seriously Bowie-esque appearance for most of my senior year of high school without regret.

bulletin

I do not get it when people remark on my outfit and say "oooh, you're so dressed up!"
Not really. Not at all. Do you realize how much easier it is to get dressed in the morning when you just slip into a dress? One-stop shopping, people. Wearing pants means that I have to find a belt, and that belt has to coordinate with the shoes, and what shirt can I wear with these pants, and does it need to be tucked in, and what if the shoes that go with this shirt don't work with these pants, and so forth.
Wearing a dress? Dress, shoes, potential jewelry if you're fancy, and done.

This was especially needed this morning, when I got up at 4:00 a.m. (yes, you read that right) to be at work at 6:15 a.m. for a big special event that started before 7:00. A dress is the only right choice to make at dark o'clock.

Brown tweed dress, Ann Taylor; burgundy wedge-heel boots
(they are so, so comfortable, and they make me easily 6'1"), Aerosoles.

Kiss Of Death pendant, Culp Baubles; gold multi-strand necklace, Maude Vintage in Columbia MO.

rocktober

I love October. Halloween is my favorite of all holidays- the costumes! the boozy cider! the costumes! the sugar highs! (I will change my favorite to The Meberg Stine Easter/Birthday Extravaganza if I finally get to attend, naturally), and fall smells so good (right now, my neighborhood smells like fall in Minneapolis, which is all sorts of nostalgically pleasant), and fall means boots and tall socks and pretty coats and elbow-length gloves.

Rust-orange wool cape, vintage; boots, vintage; umbrella, Target.

Navy wool shift dress, Paul & Joe Rendez-Vous for Urban Outfitters.
Note: if you wear this dress and a pair of heels to fly, and you're rolling
your red carry-on behind you, four people per minute will assume
that you're a flight attendant and ask you about departure gates. FYI.

Hey, that's not the same white wall with a window behind it from previous outfit photos, is it? No, because October also means new apartment, with a pleasant brick wall in the living room and a Blessed Virgin of Guadalupe-esque mark on said wall. Let's hope this apparition approves of my eventual decorating choices for this room.

thank you for being a friend

You should know Laia. And if you already know her, you love her, because she is a bad-ass pixie with great tattoos, a laptop, and a serious brain, and fabulous access to NY Fashion Week.

She, in addition to being a wonderful person who scoured NYC newsstands for me last summer to procure a copy of "the black issue" of Vogue Italia when none were to be found in Chicago, is blowing up the internet with her writing and photos and general goodness.

I'm pretty sure that her initials don't stand for Laia Garcia, but for Le Greatest. I mean, this is the girl who can nearly convince me to pull a Gaga and wear hot pants in public.

Dossier:
Worn Fashion Journal's q&a / confession of adoration
Laia's personal fashion blog, Geometric Sleep (fashion week braniac!)
her blog for POP magazine (whoa.)
her 'zine, Holy Child
her blog for Oak
her band, Ivory Coasts

(my god, girl is busy.)

Edit: oh and NOW she's all up on Refinery29's "Street Seen", looking killer. My gawd.

treasure trove

I can't think "treasure trove" and not think of that horrifying White House Correspondents' Dinner Karl Rove rap from 2007. And then "Karl", which becomes "Carl", which becomes "Carl and Lenny", which then becomes "Lenny & Me". I am going somewhere with this, I swear.


Lenny & Me really is a treasure trove. I haven't gotten around to photographing my amazing finds from my recent stop-in, but Lindsey, the shop manager, was sweet and let me poke around with my camera and take these poorly-composed shots of her amazing picks. Her displays are far more aesthetically pleasing than my photos suggest, but the best thing of all? The thing that makes me swoon? Is the amazing inventory.
Seriously, everyone: come to Chicago and go vintage shopping with me here. There are a bunch of great vintage stores up and down Milwaukee Avenue (Store B is another favorite, and oooh, they have a wondrous collection of v ladylike gloves), but I think Lenny & Me is the fairest of them all.

I mean, look at this stuff. For real.

The jewelry cabinet not only seduced me with the pretty glittery things, but also with the collection of gold belts. Why do I not have a gold belt? I need to remedy this. Except with a belt that actually fits my waist, and not one sized for a tiny little lady.

These dresses are pretty much made for Trixie From Toronto of Buttercup Punch.

These shots are crap, but it shows you a tiny slice of the racks of dresses. Lindsey arranges them by decade, and thank god I showed some surprising restraint in pawing through these, or I'd have gone into a purchasing blackout and overloaded my bag with cocktail dresses.
Is it just me, or is the sound of hangers being flicked on racks of clothing a really pleasant and soothing sound?

Oh my god, you guys. There's a suitcase of furs. And then there's the most fabulously absurd fur ever with tiny little fox dolls attached- it's so unapologetically "fur is murder, and it's fabulous, darling!".

I know it's almost October, but I want this swimsuit. Ruching!

AND THEN THE SHOES. This place is shoe nirvana, especially for someone with super-narrow feet and high arches. Vintage shoes tend to run really narrow, which is a godsend for me. They fit like a dream. (Yes, I did buy shoes here this week. But only one pair! And they're mint-condition suede heels from the 50's with the most adorable little tie on the front. Photos forthcoming.)
Those black croc pumps on the top left in the first shoe-display photo are vintage Yves St. Laurent. Good eye. You should buy them.
Are those leopard-print satin heels not crying out for Skinny Bone Jones, guys? Yes, yes they are. They say "give me a good home, please, Skinny!"

They also run a lovely vintage housewares/décor/etc. store farther up Milwaukee Avenue, and I am trying to justify my idea of (re)furnishing my apartment once I move (yes, again) next week. Do I need a honey-blonde side table for my new living room? Well, that depends entirely on one's definition of "need", now doesn't it?