Vintage Lollipops

For the first time in a very long time, the temperature dropped drastically, then warmed, then dropped again… and thus freakishly ping-ponged for the rest of the afternoon. Lucky for me, this meant temporarily gallivanting about random locations while adhering to the Holy Grail decree of the autumn season… faux fur. While risking the possible horror of never locating this perfect-for-any-era and yet slightly glamorized statement, there it was. Nearly obscured among vintage racks and a pungent days-of-yore fragrance, I’d finally found my friend, my faux. I’m guessing it’s something in the air, because I own at least half a dozen of these retro coats and moments preceding this post, became legal guardian of one more orphaned on eBay. But in this sublime parade of fashion ecstasy, I had to wonder... have I caught some sort of communicable faux fur addiction? Possibly. Heels, UO. Zipper skirt, DIY. Pearls, Vintage & Chanel. Studded belt, HT.

Tulle be or not Tulle be… now there’s the obligatory question. At the crossroads of Radically Chic Street and Shopaholics Anonymous, I’m bordering a quasi-suburbanite logic that if I can’t gallivant merrily about New York… why don’t I just bring a little Sex and the City to a vicinity near me? Feeling somewhat zingy-zangy over the looming Halloween trickery, a fashion epiphany struck like a subtle carnage knocking at my door. Inevitably, this was followed by a swarm of butterflies in the pit my stomach that most experience while falling in-love. A mere 25 dollars and 12 grueling hours later, my Carrie Bradshaw/Neo-prima Ballerocker skirt was conceived, and I have my sewing genius mother to thank… because frankly, I can’t whip a stitch. The Blahnik of skirts everywhere, the couture in a sea of converse, the gossamer kingpin… it is now the First Lady of my wardrobe. Lucky is teaming up with TheSupermelon.com and holding a smaller/separate contest for their "Style Your Jeans...

Firstly, I want to send out into the land of blogosphere Lovelies, an enormous thank you to Saray , Fashion Dreamer , and Sera-louise for thoughtfully tagging me. Cyber hugs all around! In other world news, while sipping coffee over my usual laptop garnish, I was contacted by the Editor of Writer’s Digest. A paragraph of black letters and a millisecond later, I was a finalist in the 77th Annual Writer’s Digest Writing Competition. A week later, still unsure of my respective category, the certificate finally arrived… and as if by some serendipitous act from the writing otherworld , I’d been one of the lucky chosen (from more than 17000 entries) to receive an Honorable Mention in the Children’s/Young Adult Fiction category! It doesn’t take much to make me happy, but in these moments of near psychotic jubilation… my only recourse is to instigate something I like to call, Shopper’s Delight . And while the blustering winds and semi-damp weather strong-willed this outfit, I felt an obligator...

Nestled into my ritualistic spot in the writer’s lair, this early morning grogginess calls for only one solution, an uber-astringent coffee-coma. While poorly attempting to reboot my mental hard drive from last’s night block party/scary movie combination, naturally, the hardly theoretical premise of seasonal concepts got me thinking. Spring, summer, autumn, winter… fashion. Springtime is like the icing on the cake, a teasing foreplay to what’s yet to come. Gradually, the sizzling summer heat sweeps through, peeling us from our clothes and dousing wardrobes like garland with tatty denims and platform gladiators. With a gust of wind, autumn rushes in accessorizing our lives with tights and trousers while winter… the shameless faux fur climax of the year, is frosting us with style. With that said, I felt a little ACDC graphic tee was necessary and um, the chains around my boots were once bra straps... now aptly deemed boots straps. I guess Victoria really does have a secret.

Just like that, I couldn’t avert the DIY-ing… like some late-night freak show on a channel only I was watching, I found myself inextricably haunted by the manifesto of inventive opportunity. A creative baptism, I'm thinking. So after a gentle nudge from numerous vintage cross trinkets, slightly dilapidated pieces, and near archaeological finds, I’d strewn together a gold and silver necklace… the alpha dog to all the rest. And it’s not an illusion. I’m wearing the ubiquitous shorts, and unless some wacky blizzard comes roving through like the abominable snowman, it’s non-negotiable… I’m living in Denim Cutoff Town. Blazer, sunglasses, and vest, Vintage. Necklace, DIY. Boots, Rocawear.

It’s a simple fact where I come from that when you can’t get what you want… you get things. However, after several joyfully unstructured and sometimes plot-driven moments, commonly referred to as getting things , it’s beginning to feel as if I’m stockpiling for the apocalypse or something. And I begin wondering…. what do the clever women of the world do in these paramount, mission provoking, and slightly unadulterated pursuits of love, sex, style, and practicality… and there was my answer, as clear as day. We buy shoes. Ankle boot, Bakers.

Here’s a sight rarely seen… trousers! Bolstering a spunky need for change, the androgynous feel masquerades as something of the fashionably divine. Once ambivalent, I decided to lay down the gauntlet and finally flaunt my denim cutoff infidelities. But where I live, it gets blasted hot, agonizingly so… and this inferno humidity can sometimes lead to stylistic disadvantages among those ever-vindictive wardrobe challenges. I mean seriously, the suburbanite ambiance is crinkled with shades of russet and leaves are falling down like rain, despite the somersaulting 60 to 80 degree variances. A common belief in the world of comfortable apparel repetition … if I wasn’t perpetually addicted to one thing, wouldn’t I just be addicted to another? Perhaps, the proverbial tatty white t-shirt?

I’m so non-committal to my other stylish frocks, albeit the perfectly exposed pockets and neo-destroyed personality of these vintage cutoffs has transformed me into something of the denim freak. There, I've said it! Bogarting all of my apparel affections, for now, I’m touting them as long as humanly possible, while the style gods and obviously confused climate semi-sanctions such gloriously short attire. Well, we all have our fetishes… mine’s just slightly more publicized than the norm, despite the jealous anguish of my closet’s contents. But in jest, I start wondering… is this some sort of crisis? A fashion haze spawned by one too many cocktails? Have I really become a denim addict? Nine West Cuzza boots, the newest addition to my Shoeology. And yes... lots of pictures! I was undecided.

There are obvious circumstances when the point of fashion is to obliterate a universal staple, such as a horrifically basic Hanes t-shirt, and then revel justly in the fact that you just kicked its sweet little ass into something you can no longer live without. It’s not always about the neophyte. It’s about warping and renovating what you already own into something you’ve preserved with individuality… of course while swimming in your obscene moment of stylistic grandeur. On the sly, I’ve always had the do-it-yourself-bug (kudos to all the DIY bloggers), albeit rarely find the time for such intoxicating craft safaris. So on a whim, I decided to slash/slice/dice/and put through the shredder a completely powerless t-shirt just because I wanted to. Seriously, that’s reason enough for me. But this DIY business…it’s like some craft recreational drug, and once you get started, you can’t stop the creativity! So there I am, standing in the kitchen with an exacto knife in one hand and an uber-s...

A creature of habit, I attest to wearing certain shoes amongst other things... to death. Yes, I love these Mizrahi boots and this relic vest, I seriously can't help myself. And I couldn't resist buying this fringed bad-boy in brown as well! Taken in some random back alley, lined with boxes, crates, dumpsters, and only God knows what else... I tried to disregard the gang of manly onlookers, albeit the constant wolf whistles were somewhat distracting. All for the sake of fashion and photography...

It took an obscene amount of time, and some serious stamina to locate this perfectly studded little number, so ode to my Carrie Bradshaw belt... obviously fated to join the ranks of my wardrobe. And making their first public appearance, it's crazy how much I adore my Jeffrey Campbell Camp-ers... my newest shoefriend. You would have thought it was some bizarre shoe inauguration, as I blissfully paraded around with my stems balancing atop their divine 4 inch wonder. LOL Evidently, I'm obsessed. I wont lie. Thank you dear shoe gods for sending them to me in this perfect shade of sage green!