05 December 2007

a new soundtrack


I've been caught up in a music rut as of late. I think I just need to accept the fact that Kelly's newest CD is just not that good and let it go and move on. Ok, sure, you can pretend you don't love Kelly Clarkson. That's fine.

Thanks to
Pandora a couple of ladies have been reviving me from my slump--and I wanted to make note of their loveliness (plus, you know, just throw it out there how much I do enjoy their music and would love to have the ability to listen to their music anytime I wanted, perhaps on a CD that I could you know, own, or yeah, something like that. For anyone out there. Anyone who buys me things this time of the year. Those anyones.)

K has already requested that she be put in charge of all music at my someday store. Which is fine--I trust her and being that at the same time I was alone in my room dancing my heart out to En Vogue, she was smoking to Nirvana--she does has cool points up on me.

I will have demands, however. Heavy on the female artists & producers, heavy on independent musicians, heavy on local bands and after I close and lock the door and triple check to make sure NO ONE is in the store, I can lip synch and show off my Free Your Mind moves.

Add to play/wish list:



04 December 2007

a timeline of style

1985: The year my sister came into the world. As if I could already sense her feisty rebellion in her 9lb 4oz full body screams, I put all my efforts in sitting like a lady, dressing like a lady and acting like a lady. I insisted upon wearing a dress every. single. blasted. day. I refused to even acknowledge the existence of pants, let alone wear them. I was three.

1992: 10 years old. 5th grade. At some point during elementary school, I starting collecting pins, because, oh I don't know--I though it was cool? You know, pins--round metal things that say things like "Kiss me! I'm Irish!" or "Over the Hill" or "Kelly Tires Employee of the Month." (and yes, those three examples are all samples from my collection.) Anyway, the pinnacle of my pin collecting fiasco was the day I decided to display my collection by wearing (yes, wearing) all 100+ pins on the same day to school. Yeah, that should give you a good enough visual.

1996: One morning, out of the blue, I could no longer see my toes or pull my tight rolled jeans over my enlarged and swollen hips. Turns out my hips and breasts weren't swollen---they were just gi-normous. And they stayed that way! I was, needless to say, not incredibly excited. Since my vocabulary at the time didn't include words like voluptuous or curvy, I dedicated a couple years of my life to covering up those annoying body parts with baggy Disney t-shirts and over sized Mossimo sweatshirts. To this day I believe I had some really good tactics---who doesn't see someone sporting a life size Tigger on their shirt and immediately think, "They look small boned and petite!"

1999: The year I discovered dELiAs' mail order catalog. Knowing the popular baby doll tees wouldn't accommodate my maturing chest--I opted for shoes. Crazy, crazy shoes. I wore a pair of black oxfords with red flames for most of my junior year. I was Student Council President. I was not flame shoes. (on a side note: a google search for those shoes landed me in gothauctions.com) After the flame shoes a pair of steel gray platforms with an over sized (ridiculously over sized) round toe followed. I stomped all over band practice, prom planning meetings and fundraiser car washes in those shoes. They didn't fit in. I think deep down, as well as I appeared to fit in, it was my way of trying to say: I don't fit in here. You know, in a subtly rebellious teenager angst filled way.


2001: The freshmen 15. ( + an extra 15, you know, just for the hell of it.) I wore baggy sweatpants like it was my job.

2004: About to graduate college, I lived up my last reality/responsibility free days wearing cheap tight black shirts with too much cleavage and too many rum & cokes. Five best friends curling eyelashes and singing Bon Jovi into empty Corona bottles before scattering precious drunken regrets across a dark city on a painful pair of stilettos.

2006: Looking to enlarge my wardrobe on a shoestring budget---my girl and I discover the local thrift store. Most of my homesick feelings today are for that place. Our futon--the dog crate---my favorite sweater --all sweet reminders of our Sunday morning haunt. I started to build a new wardrobe of mismatched vintage pieces and retail rejects. Recently a woman at Nordstorms assaulted me over my multi-colored leather boots. When I told her I bought them used, for ten bucks, I thought for a spilt second she was going to spit in my face. I don't know if she was impressed or shocked that nice looking shoes aren't just hatched from shiny boxes in the back room of expensive stores.


Today: I'm a cross between new and old, confident and insecure, comfortable and awkward. Right now I'm wearing a vintage red dress, a sweater from a high school shopping spree at Maurices and yellow kitten heels from the 80s that a co-worker's compliment, "Nice yellow shoes?" made me doubt for a hot minute. (I love it when people end a compliment with a question mark and still pat themselves on the back for being nice. I guess I should just say "Thank you?" and let it go.)

Like the flames, maybe these bright yellow shoes are just my way of saying, in a subtle rebellious 20-something angst filled way, "I do not belong in this cubicle mindlessly stuffing envelopes for corporate giants."


Style speaks. It can be loud, like the grating noise of hundreds of little metal pieces scraping against the desk seat when the bell rings. It can be quiet, homesick and baggy, invisible in an imaginary popularity contest.

You're on the journey to find your own voice from the beginning. (I was a wise three year old--dresses are incredibly comfortable and easy to wear!) But it's easy to lose yourself amidst fads and the fear of judgement. (For example: buried in my parent's coat closet is a Miami Heat Starter Jacket. I'm from the Midwest and I've always strongly disliked sports and bulky winter coats.)

Regardless of future fashion faux pas moments, I hope that I manage to stay true to my own fashion sense, whether or not it's a language easily translated by the general public. It's worth any embarrassing story--and it's the reason every time my mother cleans house and pulls out a worn shoebox containing flame covered oxfords, I beg her to hold on to them for me, just a little longer.