Vintage Fashion Debunked.

Is “debunked” the right word? I don’t know. I used to think that I looooved vintage fashion. The idea of a string of pearls sitting around in a jewelry box that’s been passed down since the Titanic? Maybe it belonged to Rose De… Dewitt? Google says “Dewitt-Bukater”, but I’m just going to call her Rose Dawson because we all know she should have scooted over and let Jack climb up on top of that door with her. He didn’t have to freeze to death. It’s not always all about you, Rose, people are dying.

But the pearls. Let’s get back to the pearls. Did she have pearls? Oh, wait – no, she had that gaudy necklace that she chucked it into the ocean at the end of the movie. Way to be a hero, Rose. People have been looking for that.

But when you say something is “vintage” – that’s what people imagine. That’s why they say “ooh… ahh…”, because they’re envisioning something that somebody wore back in the day. It’s a romantic idea that something has been around longer than, you know, a Forever 21 t-shirt that you ripped and threw away after one wash. It tells a story. It’s been around the block. It’s seen some stuff.

When I was in high school, one of the girls came to school one day wearing dangly paperclip earrings. Like, dangly earrings, made of paperclips. Tiny paperclips clasped together dangling from her ears. And when everyone said, “Oh! Those are… different!” – she told us that she found them in her grandmother’s jewelry box and that they were “vintage”.

Vintage paper clip earrings. From Grandma’s jewelry box. Like Grandma was a true fashion pioneer back in the 40s who just strung a bunch of paper clips together and then said, “Yea, I’m gonna keep these. Let me just put these in the jewelry box next to my pearls.” 


Did they even have paper clips back in the 40s? When did they start making paper clips? Were people even writing on paper back then, or was it all parchment and quill pens?

Okay, I guess it’s the 1940s, not the 1800s. You shouldn’t come here expecting a history lesson. We’re here to talk about clothes and stuff.

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Living with Intention.

Do you remember high school? I mean, really remember it.

I thought I’d grow up to be a model.

I’d forgotten about that until recently when I went back through and found the old diary I’d kept when I was 15. There’s a whole story in there about how I told my friend I wanted to be a model and she was like, “What’s your back up plan?” and I was like – “uh, RUDE” –then went off on a spiel about ambition and drive and told my super-rude friend that “If I didn’t believe I had a CHANCE to make my dreams come true, I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning” – to which my dumb, mean friend said, “So you’re telling me that you wake up every morning and say to yourself ‘I’m going to be a model’…?”

No. No, I did not do that. I was ambitious and overly optimistic, but not clinically insane.

Her next question (according to my notes) was – “What are you doing to get there?” as in, what steps was I taking at that point in my life to make this whole ‘modeling dream’ happen. This should be the first question you ask yourself for any career path. If you genuinely want to do something, or “be” something in this case, you have to lay out a plan and take the necessary steps to get there.

I get that now – at 30 years old, but I did not get it at 15. Instead of coming up with a career plan at 15, I got all bent out of shape because my so-called-friend didn’t “believe in me”. How DARE she? I’m going to be a STAR!

I had no formal training. No experience. No portfolio. And when I’d asked my parents if they’d pay for modeling classes at Barbizon, they said – “Eh……..?” and changed the subject.

But still. I wanted to be a model! How DARE she ask me about my “plans”. Did she think I couldn’t get “discovered” at the mall like one of those girls on America’s Next Top Model? I thought we were FRIENDS!

So that’s who I was in high school: lots of ambition, a little bit of delusion. And a lot of frizzy hair.

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Wedding Planning.

About three months after you get engaged, something happens. The first two months are all about celebrations and “Congratulations!” and people telling you how happy they are for you. You’ve found your person. The one who’s agreed to smell your morning breath every day for the rest of your life and kiss you anyway (albeit, sometimes on the forehead. That’s okay.)

“There’s plenty of time to plan”, people will say. “There’s no rush. Just enjoy it!”

“Just enjoy it,” they say. Until the ‘newness’ wears off. Once your friends and family have already heard the story about ‘how he did it’ and ‘where he did it’ and “did you know? Were you surprised?” – the conversation gradually fades during the upcoming months into questions about dress shopping and guest counts and napkin colors.

Napkin colors. Did you know that it’s possible to have a ten minute conversation about napkin colors? I didn’t. Until it happened the other day when I was asked about “my vision” and “were these napkins going to work with that?”

I mean… they’re still napkins, right? If I spill something, these will be the things used to clean it up? Okay. Just checking.

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2019: Goals for the New Year.

I went downstairs to the storage unit yesterday in our parking garage. This is one of the finer luxuries that we pay for in apartment living. Storage units and parking garages. Some of our friends own entire homes with an entire garage hooked onto their house. We pay the same amount of money to rent a 900 square foot space and keep half of our clothes under the bed. “It’s cozy!”, we say. “We love it!” We paid extra for the spot in the parking garage (Spot. Uno spot. We share it. “So cozy!”) and the storage unit. The apartment people (manager? leasing office? whoever we signed with) said that it would be “SO NICE to have just a little extra storage space!”

So we paid extra for the little wire cage in the garage. The apartment people called it a “storage unit”, but it’s a cage. It looks like a bird cage or a dog kennel. This means that it is not a heavy-duty, weather-proof steel locker that can guard our stuff against the elements. (LOL what elements? It’s in the garage, right? RIGHT.)

We don’t keep anything important in there. Just a random suitcase, some extra cleaning supplies, and seasonal decor. Things that we literally-can’t-fit-into-the-apartment. And the box to hold our Christmas decor. That’s why I was down there in the first place – to get the box to pack up our Christmas tree. I hadn’t realized yet that – apparently – the family of squirrels that have been living in our garage for the past month had decided to pee all over it.

Let me just say that again – so that it sinks in, like the pee that sunk into our box labeled “Christmas Decorations” – I opened the door to the little, wire cage in our garage (smelled a fantastic aroma), pulled out the box, and realized that my hand was greasy… from the pee. I had squirrel pee, on my hand.

So, in case you were wondering, that’s how my 2019 is going.

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The Day My Yoga Pants Finally Made It To A Yoga Class.

I love yoga. I mean, I’m not “good” at it or anything – I don’t know what I’m doing, or how to breathe, and it took me a year just to figure out what “cat cow” was.

But I love yoga. I love rolling out my little, pink yoga mat in the middle of my living room floor, and picking out a yoga video from my favorite yoga YouTube channel and pretending that I’m confident and relaxed as I stumble (and sometimes fall down) through the twenty or thirty minute sequence of my favorite YouTube yoga instructor saying “just breathe”.

I love yoga, or whatever it is that I’m doing on my living room floor (mostly just trying to twist my body into weird shapes and pretend that it’s totes relaxing). It makes me feel good. But to say that I  actually “do yoga” feels a little bit like saying I’m a salsa dancer after taking a couple of Zumba classes. It’s just not the same. My yoga pants have spent more time grocery shopping and walking to 8 AM college classes than they have on yoga mats.

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How to Reduce the Stress of Traveling.

Overheard at the terminal bar last week in the Kansas City airport– guy asks the bartender if he can have a “mock tail” (similar to a cocktail, but with less alcohol – and by “less”, I mean zero). The bartender says, “Sure. What would you like?” 

The guy doesn’t know. He just stands there for a minute, like he’s never been asked that question before. Finally he says, “Like, a wine?” 

First of all – the fact that he just called it “a wine” made my entire day. 

Now the bartender looks confused. I don’t blame him. “Wine?” He asks. “So… juice.” 

The guy shrugs. “Well, I don’t know how you do it.” 

I should also point out that this guy is well into his twenties – more likely early thirties. He is old enough to know what “a wine” is.  

My flight was boarding shortly after, so I don’t know what happened next. I’m assuming he got his juice, asked the bartender to pour it into a wine glass, and then sent a Snapchat to all of his friends with the caption “Thirsty Thursday”. 

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