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?

dress for success

A brief manifesto on office dress codes:

I understand, in certain industries, the necessity of enforcing a formal dress code for the office. White-shoe law firms, banks, psychiatrists, and so forth: the tip-top in professional dress seems appropriate and even necessary (to say nothing of industry-mandated dress codes for those in the medical field or whatnot). And although it's never been spelled out explicitly, I've worked in several offices where an implied "business" dress code was certainly the norm.

Recently, I received an email re: office dress code. This particular office happens to define itself as "business casual", which is no surprise at all. However, the email ended with the line: "no jeans". And mostly, I get that. Really. But there's this great disconnect happening here in the huge grey area between "business casual" and "no jeans".

For example, I'm 100% convinced (and oh, how I would bring you photographic evidence of this!- if only I were able to photograph people without being noticed!) that the example ensemble of dragging-hem, wrinkled, and faded black "dress pants" (ha) with a shapeless t-shirt layered over another dingy t-shirt is in no way at all to be considered "business casual" or office-appropriate. On the other hand, something like this (from my Lazy Sunday a few months ago) includes jeans, but I'd wager that it looks worlds more professional than the more-than-casual abomination criticized above. Or, horrors, the black gym pants I saw today, paired with a black t-shirt and drapey wrap cardigan. Now, is that outfit perfectly appropriate and perhaps even flattering for a run to the grocery after your yoga class? Absolutely. And I've likely worn it myself on several occasions, but none of those occasions have been to work.

The "no jeans" clause bugs. In my mind, it should be enough to say "please dress in accordance with our Business Casual standards." If that means that well-fitting jeans devoid of rips and the like may be worn, so much the better. But people, as Beckett reminds us, are bloody ignorant apes; they will find a way to attire themselves in sloppy-but-technically-standard-following ensembles.

Oh, my delicate aesthetic sensibilities are aching.

as if my brain were a maraca

The poky bits that are sticking out the ephemera right now:

1) For the seventh (!) time in two and a half years, I moved. Again. And for the seventh time, moving has eaten my brain whole and left, in its place, a bag of burnt microwave popcorn to rattle in my skull.
1a) I really need a bed. And a filing cabinet. And a couch. And some shelves. Let's amend that: I really need some furniture.
1b) The gas in my new apartment is not turned on yet, so I am cooking sans oven or stovetop. Which is to say that I'm cooking only with a microwave and a crockpot, which isn't really "cooking" so much as "trying not to starve to death by making more instant oatmeal".

2) I am wholly unimpressed with the Anna Sui for Target collection. Ugh.

3) Is it just me, or is "Gossip Girl" getting bad-worse with each episode, and not good-trashy-worse? I need someone to get legitimately blackmailed, or sexually harassed, or something. And Little J, do we need to have yet another talk about eyeliner?

4) All of Chicago cares about the Olympic bid. Except me.

5) You have not lived frustration until you've had the phrases "you are ridiculously overqualified" and "you really aren't qualified" lobbed at you back-to-back and in rather rapid succession, and for several days at a time.
Yes, I am still looking for a job, and no, none are forthcoming, and yes, this is making me crazy and unbearable. Chicago people: call me. Seriously. I will work for you, and I don't care that I'm overqualified on paper.

6) Still thinking about that tattoo I want.

7) Halloween costume preparations must begin post-haste.

8) Bless you, Skinny Bone Jones, and your bourbon slushies.

9) I got hit by a car on Saturday. Yes, I am fine, and yes, the bike is fine too. But for the five thousandth time, people: CHECK YOUR BIKE LANE/WEAR YOUR HELMETS.
I was riding in the Milwaukee Ave bike lane, and you decided to pull over into a parking spot along the side of the street. You didn't check to see if anyone was in the bike lane while you did so. I, being clipped into my pedals, knew that I could not swerve into the curb without smashing my body into the pavement at a high speed, so I chose to lean hard into your car upon impact.
You felt appropriately awful, I think. But if you think that hitting a biker gave you a scare, please consider what the effect might be upon the person you hit. You know, the person who is not surrounded by a nice metal and plastic and airbagged cage, and who has no health insurance, and who has the right of way.
That is all.

grown-up drag

In which I "act my age":

The jacket-less version: too much bare shoulder for Seriously
Corporate, but enough professional attitude for the arts

Buttoned-up Serious Interview Look:
J Crew suit, Express tie-neck shell, Seychelles shoes

I did go ahead and buy that grey suit after graduation, and although I've worn it to a handful of interviews, it still hasn't worked its job-getting magic for me. I'm waiting (impatiently) for one of the many things I'm working toward to come to fruition, but in the meantime, the pink satin lining of this suit jacket is slightly comforting.

I feel like I'm going onstage in a drag show when I put this on sometimes: a show in which I am impersonating a real grown-up to a room full of actual adults. I own a suit? Really?
(Really. But I haven't had it tailored yet- due to that pesky lack of funds begat by lack of employment- so it's only 70% serious suitage.)

Thankfully, my résumé reminds people that regardless of my silent awe at being treated as a grown-up, I may actually be qualified to be in the room.

house porn

... if by "porn" you mean "improvised horror films", that is.

My lease for the summer apartment is up on October 1, so like a good little overachiever, I've been diligently scouting for new apartments since August 1. Padmapper is massively helpful in this regard, and prevents one from getting sucked in by a too-good ad that promises "Wicker Park 1br + den $700/mo heat incl!" that turns out to be in Humboldt Park. (Yes, I know you can just hit the "google map this" link at the bottom of the ad, but I try to limit the number of extraneous tabs I have open at one point.)

I think I have seen every single apartment in Chicago. Really. I won't get into the fine details of my apartment wishlist, but the gist of it is: I need an apartment with a reasonable amount of closet space, a kitchen that actually functions as a kitchen and not a spot to reheat takeout leftovers, a bedroom large enough for both a bed and a dresser (this seems to be an issue for 95% of the apartments I've seen. "Queen-sized bedroom" means, in apartment slang, "a queen bed fits in the bedroom, but only if you don't open the door or have a headboard or need the room to maneuver to change the sheets"), a tiny little outdoor space where my basil and strawberries and tomatoes can grab a little sunlight, and is does not have byzantine parking rules which require me to repark my car every 72 hours in one of the four parking spaces available to a neighborhood of sixty-seven cars. Is this so much to ask? Apparently, yes.

Well, now, I shouldn't be too hasty on all that. I'm quite certain that all these things could be acquired with the right amount of money, but the "right amount" may be something approaching five figures per month, and I don't know whether to laugh or sob or torch the leasing agent's office. I once found going to apartment showings to be a pleasant pastime: look at all the lovely crown moldings! Oh, the back porch is adorable here! Wouldn't it be nice to live next to the park? Now, apartment showings are creeping up on my Least Favorite Things, right up there with scrubbing windows and tasting to see if the food has gone bad.

Despite all this horror, I'm hoping to have a living situation figured out in the next week. The moment I sign a lease, of course, I'll suddenly receive a job offer in New York, and all my Chicago employment prospects will fizzle, per Murphy's Law.

Edit: well, at least it's not the horrorshow that is this story about a loft apartment in Kansas City. Thanks, Apartment Therapy, for showing me that it could be worse!

head case

I feel like there's a critical mass of chicks-on-bikes pretty photos swirling around my head lately, and that's both great (because: BIKING! yay!) and worrisome (why is no one wearing their helmet?). Yeah, I've harped on this before, but after seeing umpteen earbud-wearing, fixed-gear-riding, helmetless riders on my street today, I had to go back and rant further.

Look at the "bicycles" section on The Sartorialist, for example. (Yes, that interview he gave to The Globe and Mail made me shudder, but I still think the blog is a great place for pictorial inspiration.) Only one of the photos shows a helmet. Or Garance Doré's "Me and My Bike": helmet-less, all. Sure, some of these photos are simply posed sitting atop a bike, but several of them are purportedly moving shots. And I do love Painfully Hip- especially Amber's exhortation to ride wearing whatever the hell you want (skirt, wedges, a dress that is technically too short but I don't care)- but c'mon, whatever the hell you want should include a helmet.

Let's Go Ride A Bike recently put up a series of scans from Bust, and one of the added captions struck me: "obligatory helmet shot".
None of any of the other photos in this article ("Sweet Ride") involved a helmet. I'm going to cut some slack on the off-the-bikes shots- it is a fashion editorial, after all- but as much as I will ignore the wrongness of both riding on the sidewalk and riding four abreast on the street in this spread, I can't get behind the idea that while bikes are cool, helmets are somehow optional. One photo involving a helmet is not a bonus point for safety.

My friend Ruth is now biking to work most days- a good five-ish miles each way- and she rocks a cherry-red Triple Eight helmet that I think looks way cooler than my old Bell helmet. Is she going to fret about her helmet not matching her pants? No. Am I going to eschew my helmet when I ride because the model-types on The Sartorialist never wear helmets, and nothing bad ever happens to pretty girls, riiiiight? Hell no.

I'm lucky to have never (yet) been doored or otherwise injured while biking, but that's due to luck and not any particular skill on my part. And though I might have the vain little voice in my head sometimes that says "what if you have a weird lump in your hair when you take your helmet off?", I'd rather show off an odd bump from my helmet than show off the inside of my skull to the pavement.

So, Scott: when are you going to start taking photos of cyclists who can accessorize their heads with something other than a kicky headband?

this is your brain on...

Like A Lady and the Belgian Waffle before me, I drew a set of brain-portraits. Actually, what I tried to draw was a clever diagram of my brain laid out like the phrenology head I have on my mantel, but then I accepted that in addition to having truly horrendous handwriting (this is my "neat penmanship", thank you very much), I also cannot draw for shit.

Today's brain, which you may not actually care about, falls squarely into the Good Day camp (job prospects looking up, a run along Lake Michigan this morning, talking to my grandfather on his 90th birthday).

Navel-gazing with a touch of ego, ahoy!

blue jean baby

If, like me, you have no money (and, perhaps, you too have just been informed that some motherfucker stole your debit card number! and has been charging hundreds of dollars that you don't have to various online retailers and screwing up absolutely everything by taking the last drops of money to your name in the world and blowing it on match.com and iTunes and other things!- NOT THAT I JUST GOT OFF THE PHONE WITH FRAUD CLAIMS OR ANYTHING! not that I'm ready to either kill or cry or both!), you hunt down free stuff like a truffle pig on speed.

Ahem.

So, yeah, free stuff! In this case, free Current Elliot jeans from chickdowntown.com:

skinny slouch

How does one get free pants?* (other than by stealing my bank account information and buying them for yourself, that is? AUGH.) By emailing something amusing to me at nadarine (dot) blog (at) gmail (dot) com by this Sunday, and I'll pick a winner either randomly or by measuring how much a submission has made me chortle to myself inappropriately in a public place.

Dammit, I've been looking at the "sale" page - PRIOR TO FINDING OUT THAT MY BANK ACCOUNT IS NOW IN THE HANDS OF SOMEONE TRULY EVIL- oh, sorry, now going to the Loeffler Randall page and gazing longingly at those flat boots and weeping into my bank statements.

*(More chickdowntown stuff: twitter and facebook links, for discounts and such.)

i like to move it, move it

That title? It's a complete and utter lie, because no matter how lovely and helpful your movers are- and oh god, splurging to hire movers to load and unload the moving truck was the best decision I've ever made in my life- you're still stuck with an apartment that looks like this once those helpful people leave.

My god, where to begin.

And then it takes you six days to dig out from under all the boxes, and the fact that all the boxes were from the liquor store (because #1, the liquor store was a half-block away, and #2, the boxes used to ship glass bottles full of liquid are bound to be sturdy, not because you happen to have four thousand empty liquor boxes lying about, I promise) makes you want a bottle of wine like now.

But then six days later, once you've fully freaked out over the fact that your new kitchen has no drawers at all and the entire thing is seven formica tiles wide by six formica tiles deep, including the entryway- and oh I am not kidding about that, look-
-and your new bedroom will fit either a full-sized mattress and a tiny dresser OR a queen-sized bed, but absolutely nothing else, and the bathroom is too small to open the door fully, and the only closet is a coat closet and where oh where will your shoes live?- you realize that hey, that built-in glass bookshelf in the living room might just be the solution.



And then you will calm down a bit, and sit on the bench in front of the window, and silently thank your neighbor with an unsecured wifi network, and you will think that despite being unemployed and overwhelmed, things might be ok.