Fall fashion trends (that you probably already have in your closet!)

I believe it was Oscar Wilde who said, "Do not fall in love with a man who doesn't make you feel like the most awesome, incredible, baddest bitch on the block."... those of course weren't his exact words, but the sentiment was the same. You know what else can make you feel that way? A leather jacket.

Seriously. I can be wearing sweatpants, and still feel like a stylish badass biker babe if I've got a leather jacket on. (I have never been on a bike - and by "bike", I  of course mean motorcycle - so I don't know what that really feels like, but this is the only way I can know how to describe it.) It's like magic. While sweatpants in public say, "I can't get my life together", a leather jacket says, "This is OBVIOUSLY a style choice. And if you don't get it, then you're not as cool as I am." 

How to make ANY outfit look good.

There were two things that I wanted to be as a high school freshman: a Varsity cheerleader, and the lead in the school play. As a quiet, mousy, afraid-to-even-raise-her-hand-in-class kind of kid, these seemed like totally normal things to want. I was too shy to ask a question during English class, but getting up in front of everyone during a basketball game and jumping around in a short skirt? That sounds GREAT! Sign me up. There was a guy I liked on the basketball team.

I mean, of course there were OTHER reasons I wanted to be a cheerleader - because it's a SPORT. And a healthy extracurricular. And a great opportunity to build life-long friendships with my other cheer... mates? Cheermates? Is that a word? Cheer friends?

Whatever. It was mostly about the guy. And everyone knows cheerleaders are hot.

So I dragged my friend to try-outs with me - you know, because I was too afraid to go alone - and together we learned all of the basic chants, stunts, cheers, I think there was a dance involved? The only thing I can remember is thinking how they made everything look so much easier in "Bring It On". I couldn't even do a cartwheel, let alone the front handspring-stepout, roundoff back handspring-stepout I had planned to blow everyone away. You know, if I practiced enough. How hard could it be? It's just, jumping around. On your hands.

I did the splits for my "stunt" portion during try-outs. That was one of the things - you had to do a "stunt": a cartwheel, a roundoff, a handspring, you could even do a forward roll if you weren't coordinated enough to do anything else. Which I wasn't. But I chose to do the splits, because I decided that a forward roll might be too dangerous for someone inexperienced like myself.

Also I thought the splits would be more impressive. Which they would have been - had I actually done them, instead of whatever I did. Because what I did was slide down about halfway to the ground, until my knees started to bend and my legs made this triangle shape with the floor, and I was like "Ta-da!"

How to Instagram like a fashion blogger.

Oh, Instagram. It took me forever to figure out that it wasn't Facebook.  I mean, I obviously KNEW the difference - but you know what I mean. If someone Friend requests me on Facebook without annnnny sort of mutual connections ("Did we at least go to high school together? Grow up in the same town? Are you a friend of my mom's?"), I immediately feel violated. "How did they FIND me?", I think. Like I just caught them with a telescope peeping through my bedroom window. (Sometimes even if there is a mutual connection, I think to myself: "Why are they adding me? Do I KNOW them? Did we meet once and I forgot?") But Instagram? Haha. That's totally fine. Follow me. Ask your friends to follow me. Encourage random strangers to follow me. FOLLOW ME. I NEED MORE FOLLOWERS.

If you're a fashion blogger, you're probably already on the 'gram, and you probably already have more followers than I do. (Maybe because I just referred to it as "the 'gram".) Anyway - my goal right now I'm trying to break 300.

Yup. 300.

Not 300k. Not 300 million --- (haha, does ANYONE have 300 million?) I have THREE. HUNDRED. followers. Well - actually, no I don't, I'm trying to GET 300 followers. I've been batting around 287-295 all summer.  I don't know if I can even call myself a 'blogger' at this point, even people who set their accounts to private and only follow friends and family have more followers than I do. When I hit 300, I should buy balloons and throw myself a party. You know, like the real bloggers do after they've hit substantial numbers.

Fashion bloggers consider Instagram to be a faucet of their business. They have a fashion blog on the Internet - they post pictures of themselves wearing a bunch of different outfits, what better way to advertise that than Insta? It probably helps them to get a ton of new followers. I say "probably" because they have thousands, and I have - ALMOST - 300. But I also don't post as many #ootds. Mostly because my "photographer" is my boyfriend and it is a special occasion when I can get him to take a picture of me. I purposely try to look extra fashion-y when we go out, so that I can pull him aside as we're leaving a restaurant and say "Hey, can I be weird for a second? Will you take a picture of me looking out into traffic?" And he says "Ugh." and then gives me two minutes to be weird, because he loves me.

How to take photos like a fashion blogger.

One of my biggest worries is that my boyfriend will one day see my Google Search history. It's not that I have a bunch of dirty Google secrets - I'm not hiding things from him, but I fear the day when I'll have to explain to him why I'm looking up weird stuff on the Internet like, "What kind of salads do the Kardashians eat?" or "How to get more followers on Instagram". You know. Personal things. Things between me and Google.

This almost happened last week when I was showing him a picture of a nature preserve where I thought we should go hiking. "Oh!" He said, "I should show you" (some forest preserve that had mountains and stuff) "Hang on, let me Google it", he said, still holding my phone.

Panic set in. "I'll do it!" I said, yanking the phone out of his hand. Like - straight up, grabbed it. Ninja style. Like he said he was about to scroll through my photo album and see all of my selfies and screenshots of inspirational quotes (this is my second biggest worry, by the way).

"Geeez..." He seemed a little confused. I have no idea why, especially since I was being TOTALLY NOT SUSPICIOUS AT ALL. "What don't you want me to see?" He asked.

"Nothing!" I realized by this point - you know, after the fact - that I was being super weird.Like, DEFINITELY-hiding-something weird. Great. He probably thinks I've been looking up porn. "I'm just excited to see the place you're talking about! What was it called?"

"I was going to look it up."

"I know! I just..." *Cricket* *Cricket* "What was it called?

The thing is, my boyfriend is the kind of boyfriend who would probably let me use Google on his phone. He wouldn't yank said phone out of my hand. Because he's not looking up weird things like "What really happened with Corinne and DeMario on Bachelor in Paradise?" and "Is Corinne coming back?"

But, really. What happened?

We bypassed the awkward moment - he knows me well enough by now to know that I was probably just looking up dumb stuff about the Kardashians and not 'how to smother your boyfriend in his sleep' - and gave me the name of the forest preserve to search. As soon as I typed the letter 'H' - sure enough, another embarrassing Google search came up: "How to take photos like a fashion blogger"

How to purge your closet when you think you need everything in it.

Ugh. "Purge". It's one of those words like "moist" or... "moist". It's not the way it sounds, it's just - you know, what it is. Purging stuff. I feel like I'm writing about my closet throwing up remnants of old college t-shirts and Target Mossimo tags. 

I've always thought the idea of "cleaning out my closet" sounded like a terrible idea. Like this monumental chore. Because it basically felt like opening up the door to my own personal landfill of Victoria's Secret shopping bags (that I, for some reason, struggle to throw away) and shoes. So many shoes. WHY do I have so many shoes? I have two feet. I do not need twenty pairs of shoes. 

But, you know, some day, "I might wear them" - or so I tell myself. I have clothes in there too. Some clothes. Not all of my clothes. A lot of them used to end up in piles on the floor. Because they wouldn't fit in my closet. And the floor seemed like as good a place as any to keep them - you know, because I could see them. No sense opening up the pesky old closet and reminding myself what a mess it is in there. 

And then I moved in with my boyfriend. Who is not like the boys you met in college with McDonalds bags stashed under their beds and dirty clothes spilling out of the hamper (thank God) - he's, like, an adult. He's sanitary. And while I know he loves me, I figured it wouldn't take long before he would get frustrated with me using my side of the closet as a landfill for VS bags and the bedroom floor to layout my clothes. All of my clothes. You know, so I can see them. Because you can't do THAT when they're in the closet. Too many other clothes in the way. Some shirt you love might be squeezed between two shirts you hate - and then you'll miss it. And then you'll be sad. 

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.