October 28, 2011

Radiator wars...

The weather began turning cooler about two weeks ago, with highs in the 60s and lows in the 50s, which just happens to be my favorite temperature range.  In fact, I remember sitting by my open window, sipping some luke-warm tea, feeling the cool breeze on my face and saying, "Ah, it's so nice not having swamp ass 24/7."

In North Carolina, this is when the temperature would shoot back up into the 80s and I would walk outside in my leather jacket and ankle boots and immediately begin to evaporate.  But apparently things aren't happening that way here in New York this year.  Tomorrow there is a winter weather advisor.  As in snow.  Snow!  In October!  Before Halloween!  This is bonkers!  When I said I was excited about the cooler weather finally dropping in, this is not what I meant!

And to officially mark my first changing-of-the-seasons in New York City, our heat came on yesterday!  Now, if you are like me you'll be asking yourself right now, "What do you mean it 'came on'?  Can't you just turn it on yourself?  It's called a thermostat!"  As it turns out, apartment buildings here use steam radiators to heat rooms, which don't work at all until the boiler is turned on in the basement.  Why is this good?  Because it means your heat is free!  Woo!  Why is this bad?  Because you're relying on the building owner or super to turn your heat on.  My NYC friends keep telling me horror stories of their supers "forgetting" about the heat for days.  Which means there is a good chance I might die in my sleep this year.

What I wasn't expecting is that my radiator, which is at the foot of my bed, would be hissing and clanking in my general direction all night.  It sounded like there was a ceramic gnome bouncing around in there trying to escape.  Being in my sleep-depriving state, I grabbed the nearest thing to my bed, which happened to be a strappy stiletto.  I proceeded to beat the shit out of my radiator with a shoe.  It did not help the situation, but it resulted in this gruesome scene:

This is when I realized I was sweating profusely.  My room felt like a rainforest.  I quickly Googled 'how to turn off a radiator' found out that my shiny metal heat box is missing its all-import valve knob thingy.  Of course!  But I was able to turn the valve without the handle, and burned my poor fingers in the process.  RADIATOR TIP:  Use your missing-mate socks and/or torn tights in an oven-mitt manner to turn the steam valve.  Success!

This sock lives there now.  He will protect my fingers all winter.  Thanks bud!

On the upside of things, I'm finally able to throw on my winter coats and elbow-length gloves!  They will be debuted in a few Mon Vogue posts soon.  Hopefully...


October 27, 2011

Working girl!

Remember when I was four minutes late for an interview because of a screw up on the train and they told me to stop wasting their time?  That lead to a few months of failed interviews, a bit of credit card debt, and working on the street (no really, I did this and I DID NOT LOVE MY JOB).  But finally!  At last!  I am employed!  I'll be the fierce new salesboy at LUSH Cosmetics Union Square this holiday season (and beyond if I turn it out, which of course I will, because HELLO!).  My days of Depression and the City and cover letter writing are finally over!  Be happy for me!

If you don't know anything about LUSH, throw out all of your soaps and skin care immediately go to their website (LUSHusa.com) and BEHOLD how amazeballs they are.  BTdubs, it's okay to be totes jelly of my insane discount.  (Also, please bear with my (hopefully temporary) obsession with shortening words into seldom-understood colloquialisms that are even too much for Clueless.)

Also, I'm hoping to do a blog redesign soon (if you can call it that, because I'll be doing it myself).  Any suggestions?  And by "suggestions" I mean just tell me what to do because I haven't a clue.  Thanks loads!


October 26, 2011

Street Walker: Billowing

This girl was walking (way too fast) in front of me the other day, and I was mesmerized by her billowing coat.  It looked like she was floating over the sidewalk on a black cloud.  I only caught up with her in time to get one shot before she ducked into a building, and it's from behind, and she didn't know I took it.  Is that legal?  Am I going to get sued for millions of dollars?  Should I blur out the back of her head?

October 24, 2011

The Heights (cruisers & sacrifices galore)

To help ease the pain of seeing my "me" pictures, I took a walk around my hood. This is where I live! Washington Heights, 184th Street, New York, NY 10033.  (click on a photo for slide show)
My building! We're on the corner of the top floor.
This is the hill I walk up everyday.  It's killer in heels.
My metro station!  Isn't it cute?
The rest are from Fort Tryon Park a few blocks north (click the link below to see them).  I had never walked through the park before for some ungodly reason.  And besides the fact that I was cruised three times on one of the more isolated paths, it was a beautiful stroll.  Would you ever think to see stone-lined paths and a flourishing forest in Manhattan?

October 22, 2011

Stormy weather

So, this whole taking-pictures-of-myself thing is turning out to be quite difficult.  I need a tripod, people!  In order to get myself in the shot I have to balance the camera on an uneven ledge, set the timer, put myself in the general direction of the lens, and try not to look like an idiot.  The camera fell more often than not, I pressed the shutter without setting the timer every single time, my head was cut off in most of the pictures, and in the rest I looked as though I was giving someone the bitch face.  Which, in truth, I was, because an old woman was yelling at me from across the alley.  She was speaking Spanish so I just ignored her.

The sky was amazeballs yesterday!  And it was raining.

I was not in a mood to put any effort whatsoever into my appearance (obviously), so I threw on a white-and-black striped dress from Target, maroon tights, a black rain jacket from Target, and Chinese Laundry boots.  These boots are leather, but a few years ago I got caught in a mega rainstorm and was amazed to find that they are water sealed.  My feet were completely dry!  The leather studded straps became slightly warped, but they're still in good condition.  I've had these boots for four years and I wear them constantly in the fall, winter, and spring.  They've been reheeled about five times, and they're so broken-in they feel like sneakers.  I'll never fall out of love with them.

My tiny houndstooth umbrella is from a corner store.  And I know my hair looks cray-cray, and that's fine, because rain and set hair don't mix.  At all.

Sorry I didn't get any better detail shots.  This will all be easier when (if?) I ever get a tripod.  Or a boy who I can force do all the work for me.


October 21, 2011

Seent It #3: Class warfare, on the streets...

"Seent it" is a southern phrase meaning "what I saw".  Why the vast majority of Eastern North Carolinians feel the need to add consonants onto the ends of words, I will never know, but I blame country slang for my life-long struggle with spelling.  Since moving to New York, I'vza seent a many crazeh thangs.  These stories make up the "Seent It" series.

The never-ending war between the classes (and yes, I believe it long ago reached a level where that word became appropriate) is on the home screen of every news app and filling everyone's social media feeds thanks to the Occupy Wall Street protests, which started here in New York over a month ago.  I have until now forgone writing about the activity happening just a few miles away, because honestly I haven't been a huge part of it.  I "stand" in solidarity, but I'm not big on going to protests, and with the massive number of silly arrests (no offense to the police officers who are just doing their jobs, many of whom are sympathetic to the cause) occurring all over the city, I (literally and ironically) can't afford jail time.

But, earlier this week, I witnessed something that brings to life so vividly and simply the problems that the protesters are trying (key word: trying) to define and change.

A friend of mine helped me get an interview at a luxury brand on 5th Avenue, and, as always, I gave it my all and hoped for the best.  5th Avenue is one of those New York City legends that you hear about in movies and read about on endless fashion blogs, but then when you see it there's a bit of an "Oh... um, okay..." moment.  Nonetheless, if you're a fashion junkie like me, seeing the stores of iconic brands is nothing short of a fun afternoon.

After my interview I decided to do some window shopping, and where better to do that than at Prada?  Well, that is, if you can make it into the store.  No, the buff security guard was not the issue.  It was a woman.  A black woman, laying on the sidewalk a few feet from the entrance, wrapped in a child's blanket that was poorly-knitted with thick yellow yarn.  She was shaking furiously, and sweat was pooling in the sunken hollows of her cheeks.  Her back was against a temporary wooden wall that was directing pedestrian traffic away from the building under construction next door.  People were stepping around her, over her, and on her.

To give you a clearer picture, here is the actual screenshot from Google Maps, which is very recent, given the scaffolding is exactly the same:

The woman was laying on the ground between the green wall closest to the Prada store and the man who looks like his purse is being stolen (you may have to click the image and view it in full size for that).  I didn't take my own photo for a few reasons, the most obvious being that I didn't have an actual camera and my phone's is less than desirable.  But, even if I did have a camera, I'm not sure I could.  There is something about taking a picture of someone suffering that I can't endure.  It's an immeasurable guilt, of watching something happen instead of working to change it, that will live forever in a photograph.

A tall white man in a suit (basically, the man) walked by and stepped on her foot.  When she screamed he didn't miss a beat in saying "Get off the fucking sidewalk."  I yelled something along the lines of "WHO THE HELL DO THE THINK YOU ARE" and nearly launched myself in his direction.  He gave me a glance and a grin and kept on walking.  He didn't want to miss the light at the crosswalk.  I bent down, gave her my bottle of water, and asked if she was alright.  She kept on shaking and didn't respond.  A few people close by, who were also screaming at the man, said there was already help on the way.

But honestly, what help could be given to this woman?  Could she even be admitted into a hospital?  Would she be taken to an over-crowded shelter?  What could really be done?  

And yes, there are always unanswered questions as to how people like this woman become people like this woman.  Maybe she has lived her entire life on the street.  Maybe she got sick, couldn't work or afford the medical care and was kicked out of the hospital.  Maybe she is a crack addict and this entire shit storm is all her own fault.  Maybe so!

In that moment, when that man literally walked all over that woman, it didn't fucking matter.  That moment was not about how either of those people became who they are, or what series of events brought them to that sidewalk on that day - it was about the intolerable way one person consciously treated another.  It was about judgement.  It was about selfishness.  It was about pride.  And, under the surface, it was just as much about race, money, and perpetual hate.

Situations like this give me a crisis of conscience.  How can I enjoy or even hope to work in an industry that indirectly, if not directly, immortalizes social and economic inequality by catering to a small and exclusive group of people who have shit-tons of money?  How can I possibly justify the existence of $13,000.00 jackets when people are sleeping on sidewalks wrapped in tattered blankets?  The answer is I can't.  I just fucking can't.  This is when my grandfather would say "Things just are the way they are," and when hundreds of thousands of people make signs out of cardboard and camp on Wall Street.

I have no idea what happened to that woman, or her name, or her story.  Like I said, it doesn't matter.  The visual image of the scene on that sidewalk is all I can think about.  I may as well have taken a photo, because it will be with me forever.

October 18, 2011

Icons: Beth Ditto

Can we take a moment to talk about Beth Ditto?  The answer in yes, we can.

Ditto on the cover of LOVE's premiere issue.

If you don't know who she is, we can't be friends.  She's the vocalist of one of my favorite bands, Gossip (formerly The Gossip - no, I don't know why they shortened it, just go with it), and has released her own EP.  Go buy or illegally download it immediately.  Here is the amazeballs video for her single I Wrote The Book:

Yes, this is now the song I do my makeup to everyday.

Why I love her:
  • She's a self-loving fat feminist
  • She has a genuine southern accent and doesn't try to hide it (like I've been doing since the third grade)
  • Her voice is insane
  • She doesn't let her size get in the way of amazing fashion
  • She sweats like I do
  • She is not afraid to be naked (like I am)
  • She's a proud lesbian and LGBT activist
  • She's designed her own clothing line
  • Etc.
She's become one of my style/life/self-loving icons, and conducting an interview with her in a pink bubble bath is going to the top of my life list.

October 16, 2011

THAT, is a shoulder...

My fabulous friend Reuben, who is the assistant to the director of Armani PrivĂ© (I know, right!?), is beginning a grand adventure to create his own designs.  He asked me to help him fabricate a website and blog, create content, and be his muse.  After half a second of deep contemplation I said "WHAT?  HELLO!  YES!"

Not only is it great to have good friends who are creative and a joy to be around, it's amazing to see someone close to you follow their dreams.  Reuben is a fantastic stylist for Armani (HELLO!), and there's no doubt his keen eye and vast knowledge of trends will translate into amazing, handmade, original pieces of clothing (which will me make me look amazing).

One of the concepts Reuben is playing with is the refabrication of existing pieces - updating out-dated shapes and fabrics, tailoring to a custom fit, and enhancing shapes to create eye-catching silhouettes.  This is a great way to work when you're just starting out (cheap!), and, in my opinion, is a fantastic way to reduce waste by reusing readily-available materials.  We're upcycling!  Not to mention it's a great way to help future clients by re-working the clothes they may already have in their closet as opposed to spending tons of money starting from scratch (although that's fun too).  He found a decent blazer at an affordable thrift store and began the transformation by taking out the lining.  Now it's like a boring ball of clay, ready to be molded.

Today we met by the Pulitzer Fountain outside the Plaza Hotel, and with the last bit of daylight we did the first fitting.  Can we talk about how hilarious it was doing a fitting outside in the middle of the most tourist-populated area of the city?  We were also taking pictures of ourselves, which confused the passers by.  Oh, and my hair was about ten feet tall today, so that was quite a sight for them to see as well.

Yeah, a tad bit roomy.  But that is okay!  He was armed with many-a-pin!

Like I said earlier, Reuben is very interested in creating strong shapes.  How does he achieve this?  Shoulder pads!  No, seriously, MEGA shoulder pads.  Obviously the shoulder pad, after being lost for the better part of two decades, has returned over the past few years.  But have no fear - they are not the cereal-box silhouettes of the 80's, but rather more structural, sophisticated shapes that create amazing visual interest.  They also make you feel like The Hulk.

Just so ya know, in the picture below I'm actually holding my shoulders completely level.  That, lovelies, is a shoulder.  I like this photo because (besides the fact I'm making the best face in the world) you can really see the difference between the shoulders.  The padded side is (obviously) lifted and has a strong, defined edge.  It makes my natural shoulder look like a limp noodle that fell off the lo mein cart.  I can't wait until they're covered in sequins, metal, and tulle (yes - that's where all this is headed).

And, finally, all pinned up:

Notice: The line created from one shoulder to the
other is slightly curved, as opposed to
straight across, making the shape more
structural and modern.  It will become
more tailored as the reconstruction begins.  

Clearly this is just the beginning stages and we're gonna have to have about thirty eight more fittings before the jacket will fit me perfectly.  And obviously when it's finished, complete with boatloads of beading and different textures and overall BLING, it will be, in a word, major.


PS - You'll be the first to know when we launch his blog/website/thing.

October 14, 2011


When I began packing for my plane ride to the big city a few months ago, I realized I had way too much shit.  After a few days of pondering about consumer culture and whether or not any of my possessions were really worth anything to me, I decided to sell everything except a few choice outfits and seventeen pairs of shoes (trust me, this was cutting it down significantly).

Now, since I try to keep my shoes in the boxes they came in (easier to store and keeps then dust-free), this made it impossible or me to take all of them with me on the plane at once.  This was also true for my winter clothes, which are thick and bulky, and don't collapse very well into suitcase-friendly sizes.  I had already sat on both my suitcases multiple times in order to close them, bobby pins and makeup brushes shooting out the seems in every direction, so I had to say goodbye to half my wardrobe.  It went with Daphne to my mom's house, where it has no doubt been sitting in her poorly-ventilated front room beside three shotguns and few mediocre portraits of labradors with ducks in their mouths.

[Side note: My other half Daphne has apparently gained ten pounds, mostly because my mother and her boyfriend feed her subs and steak and leave the treats box where it can be easily broken into.  Ugh... as long as she's happy...]

My dad was supposed to truck Daphne and the rest of my belongings up the coast after the grape harvest last month, but apparently the grapes didn't fair so well this year, and the trip had to be cancelled.  This is fine with me, since I don't have loads of room for a keyboard and an antique red velvet chair, but I miss my dog dearly and OH YEAH, it gets fucking cold in New York and I need my winter clothes.  So, my mom threw everything, including my shoes (in their boxes!), onto a UPS truck.

Look what arrived!

Thanks, Mama!  The larger box was forty-seven pounds.  Woah.  The smaller was seventeen, and while much less impressive, I'm sure it made the walk up five flights of stairs quite miserable for the UPS man. Thanks, UPS man!

Daphne wouldn't fit in either of the boxes (because she's fat now).

And this is why I love the cooler seasons.  I get to wear wool dresses, heavy-ass coats and elbow-length gloves.

And look!  I finally have bag options!  Now I can give my poor little satchel a break for a while.  Clearly I'm a fan of bags the size of aircraft carriers.  And YEAH YEAH YEAH... I clearly have no excuse for not taking more style photos, but send me a photographer and then we'll talk.


October 13, 2011

"Just get in the limo!"

I don't go out too often.  Maybe once a week.  And that's only if I can find a hole in my job-applying, Netflix-streaming, city-exploring schedule.

The truth is, I simply don't have the stamina.  Especially for the way they party in NYC.  I'm used to the North Carolina club scene, which opens at 10 PM and closes at 2 AM, Thursday through Saturday.  People go out every, single, night in this city.  Since when is Tuesday the new Saturday?  I'm confused!  And parties don't start happening until 1ish in the AM, ending around 4.

I can't do it.  I just can't.  I have to have an entire day of recovery which consists of three gallons of water and a frozen eye mask.  Then the thought of going out again makes me want to swallow my nail headband.

But then I have a night like I did Tuesday, and I remember how FUCKING AMAZEBALLS nightlife in New York City can be.  Okay, here's the scoop:

My roommate Byron and I are fast becoming besties, bonding over vodcake and domestic gossip.  He needed to scout out some attractive single women for a VH1 show he's casting, and where better to find them than at NYC's "hottest" party (so I've heard it described), On Top at Le Bain.  This is the kind of iconic party young gay boys on farms (*ahem*) dream of but are pretty sure only exist in movies.  It's on the top floor and roof of the Standard Hotel, and you can see the entire city in every direction.  Here's a picture:

Daniel Barry for The New York Times
Yeah... yeah.

But the venue isn't even the best part.  It's the people.  Take a look at this photo album from a few weeks ago (which I had no idea I was in until I Googled "On Top" five seconds ago - I had a blue strip down the front of me), and behold the shenanigans that make New York City nightlife what it is.

Clearly my roommate would find good TV material there.  So I slapped on some red tights and my nail headband and we hopped onto the train downtown.  There was a line to get in, obviously, and this is when I get a little nervous and iffy.  I usually go to these kinds of things with my friend Margo, who has been in the club scene for 20 years.  She can get in anywhere, except for this week, because she's on the other side of the country.

We had a little texting convo that went something like, "How am I supposed to get in without you! *explode*," to which she said "You'll be fine.  Just be your fabulous self."  I've befriended a few of the regular hosts and could just use their names to get in, but I haven't been brave enough to do it.  Mostly because I've only even talked to these people at parties, and because I just don't know what the circumstances or ramifications of name dropping are.  THERE ARE NO NAMES TO DROP IN SMALL TOWN NORTH CAROLINA.  I'm not used to this...  Although I'm sure it's not as serious as I'm making it out to be.  The point is, we waited in line, which was fine (do you like the rhyme)?

We went straight to the breezy rooftop and plopped down on a huge round waterbed.  It was squishy.  A gorgeous girl in a beige dress and black, knee-high boots was lounging a few feet away, downing a cocktail and thumbing through a photo album on her iPhone.  My roommate, being a social butterfly, somehow got a conversation going.  Five minutes later we're talking about big black dicks and adopting puppy dogs, all my favorite things in life.  We met her friends, got some drinks, and the conversation never stopped.

Eventually her big-boobed Puerto Rican friend with a perfect weave met up with us, and then the party really started.

"Is this cigarette menthol?" she said, in a deep, raspy voice. "I cannot do menthol!  Isn't he cute with his blue eyes?  I think he's Jewish.  I cannot do...  Oh!  Let's go sing karaoke!"

It is important to note that prior to that evening I had never experienced karaoke.  Ever.  *virgin*  When asked what "my song" was I just sort of grunted and hummed "Listen" by Beyonce.  Which, apparently, is my song.  Keep in mind it was around 2:30 AM at this point.  I, naive as I am, asked if there were any karaoke places still open this late.  I got blank stares from everyone and then a "Yes, they're open till, like, 9 in the morning."  Woo!

All six of us made our way down to the street and flagged down two taxis.  I was already buckling myself in (which, apparently is a laughable offense) when an older foreign man started yelling at us.  I had no idea what he was saying, but eventually someone realized he was telling us he had a limo we could all take instead of riding in multiple taxis.  I had no idea limo taxi things existed.  My roommate and I shared a "look at us, we're movin' on up!" glance, and then we saw the limo.

If you can imagine a limo being so bad that you would rather be seen in a ten-year-old yellow cab, this was it.  It was a white, mid-nineties extended Lincoln Town Car with one headlight, duct tape on a few windows, and three missing hubcaps.  None of us could even get in because we were laughing so hard.  Our friend was already in the back with her feet in the air screaming "JUST GET IN THE LIMO!" and taking pictures of herself with her iPhone.  I'm pretty sure my headband hit the door frame while I was getting in and chipped off four layers of paint.  Whoops.

During our fifteen-minute ride we had an impromptu hooptie-limo photoshoot and talked about where in Harlem to get the best weave.  At some point our new hostess gave me three twenties and said, "Hand this to the driver and just say, 'Thank you'."  I have no idea how much a hooptie-limo ride costs, but I'm pretty sure the entire vehicle was worth less than sixty dollars.  I figured this would be as close to a movie star moment as I would ever get, so I put on my Betty Davis face, tapped the driver on the shoulder and said, "Fasten your seatbelts.  It's going to be a bumpy night.  Here ya go, doll."  He looked at the money and stomped on the gas.  I exploded on the inside.  For reference:

Also, it is important to note that when I go out I don't take any money (because I don't have any and if I did I would spend it all).  This entire evening was set into motion by our lovely new friend who by chance has loads of dough.  I don't judge or take advantage of people based on their economic status.  That being said, she's going to hook me up with a sugar daddy.

As our hooptie magic carpet sped away, we started running after it in hopes of getting a picture, because we knew no one would believe us.  Here's the scene: our fabulous hostess trotting down the side of the street, ankles rolling and arms flailing, with her iPhone in the air, desperately trying to open the camera app but hitting all of the wrong buttons.  "Oh!  Oh no!  Come on!  Wait!  Ugh.  I'M SORRY!!!"  Priceless.

We ran up to the karaoke studio where the owner led us directly to the "#1" room because apparently our hostess and her friends are regs.  I always pictured karaoke being a stage in a loud and crowded bar with loads of drunk people fighting for the microphone.  Instead it was a nice private room with big TV screens and a bottle of Grey Goose on the table.  The only song I really remember singing (free vodka... what can I say?) was, as I mentioned earlier, "Listen" by Beyonce.  I killed it.  Or murdered it.  Either way, I don't think anyone noticed.

The night ended with lots of double kisses, a walk to Penn Station, and an hour train ride back to 184th street.  This will be one of the stories that I refer to in a hundred years when I'm hooked up to loads of machines on a space-ship and telling my half cyborg grandchild about "the good ol' days."  And by that time my voice better sound like Betty Davis.


October 10, 2011

I can't fly...

So, take a look at this photo:

This is my eye.  My left eye, I think.  But I can't be sure, because cameras are sneaky and are always mirroring images and fucking up my sense of direction.  In any case, this is a look I created one night a few months back while absolutely bored out of my mind.  See that perfect wing?  Yeah, I did that.  That was all me.  Except, this is just one eye.  I was playing around with some fancy new liquid liner I obtained from Rite Aid, so why waste it on both eyes only to take it off in five minutes?

Turns out I should have, because I needed the practice.  When I tried to recreate the look before going out one night, I spend over an hour putting on and wiping off the liner because I COULD NOT for the life of me get the angles symmetrical.  I also got a black eye from facepalming too much.

A few nights ago I found myself once again bored and playing with makeup.  I decided I would not leave my stool until I had become a sensei of winged liner.  I armed myself with a small angled brush, matte black eye shadow (as not to use up my expensive gel, cream, and liquid liners), an abundance of q-tips and a plethora of makeup remover.

Shenanigans ensued:


October 9, 2011

"Girl, I love your sweater"

My friend Reuben and I stumbled onto the train a few nights ago (because that's what happens after happy hour), and started blabbering loudly about clothes (because that's what happens with two stylish drunk people).

I happened to look across the train and met the eyes of a poised young woman, her hands folded in her lap as she tugged gently on a seam of her gray knit sweater, balancing a turquoise bag on one knee.  I loved her immediately.  Sadly I FORGOT to write down her name, because I'm a dumdum, but hopefully she'll visit the blog, see her lovely face, and shoot me an e-mail.  Sorry, girl!

Anywho, I forgot how the conversation went exactly (*ahem*... happy hour), but it sounded remotely like this:

"Girl, I love your sweater," I said, and looked at Reuben.  "She gets it.  She gets style.  She has her own."

"Do a spin!" Reuben said, clicking away with my ancient point-and-shoot and most likely trembling from excitement.

"You first!" She said, and pointed at my feet  "I love your shoes!  How are you walking in those?"

"Four cocktails.  My feet are numb."

"That's perfect."

And then, with these pictures, we proceeded to make a mockery of photographers and style blogs everywhere (maybe one day I'll have a camera that can make even my tipsy pictures look amazing).  They barely begin to portray her amazing personality, which was as much a part of her style as the clothes:

I somehow managed to scribble down where she got all of her pieces:
  • Coat/sweater - Patricia Pepe
  • Tights - Kmart
  • Dress - Ann Taylor
  • Necklace - JC Penny
  • Shoes (which never made it into the frame) - Nine West
  • Bag - Oops... missed it.  My bad.

October 7, 2011

Mon vogue, 10.6.11

Quite a few readers have pleaded, non-stop, for me to start posting pictures of my daily outfits.  I will go ahead and tell you now that this will never happen.  For one thing, if I have no plans and don't leave my apartment all day, I can assure you I am naked and putting on clothes is not on the agenda.  I also don't have a great camera or a tripod or anything else that makes taking pictures of myself easy.  So, yeah, you'll have to deal.  Life is hard.

But, I'll take photos as often as I can.  Let's plan to do this at least once a week.  Okie dokie?

I didn't really know what to call this series.  "Daily Photo" or "My Style" are used by every other personal blog on the planet.  So, naturally, I just used a synonym for "style" and used the Google Translator to turn it into a fancy-sounding language.  French makes everything sound fancy.  "Mes maux de bout..."  See?  "My butt hurts..." totally sounds high class.

So, this is what I wore yesterday:

Yes, I'm standing on my roof, trying to look casual.  Because I go up on my roof and stare into the sun all the time, totally casz.

The jacket is from weird brand called Bernardo, which I got on super-duper clearance at the Nordstrom Rack in Raleigh.  The neon-floral scarf and metallic dress are from the Divided line by H&M.  Which sucks, because I don't remember buying either of them and I've been telling people for ages that my dress is from Target.  I swore I thought it was.  Oops.  Oh, and the ring is a huge red fake gem from God-knows-where.

The shoes are my Jeffery Campbell Lolitas, which are still in need of repair.  The burgundy tights are from Target, and I can't wear them without thinking of this:


October 4, 2011

Life in me yet...

I'm not dead.  I promise.  Pinky promise.

I was super busy for a while doing street fundraising for Amnesty International (so yes, I can say I worked the street for money and be telling the full and honest truth), but that didn't work out for various reasons.  So, now I'm just focusing on the job hunt once again.  The blog has taken a seat in the back of the bus.  Sorry!

To make up for it, watch this video I'm obsessed with and be happy: