Many of the reasons why I love October are the same reasons why people don't love October: It gets cold. It gets rainy. It gets dark earlier because we have this dumb thing called "daylight savings". Last weekend it snowed. (I mean, not a lot or anything - it only lasted for a few minutes. Just long enough for me to look out the window while we were at breakfast and say, "Is that... snow? It's snowing! Look, it's snowing!" ... So, for a few minutes there, it was snowing.)
But snow and cold and rain means that I get to break out my "cute winter clothes". The scarves. The boots. The twenty-million jackets I have even-though-I-only-wear-three-of-them.
It's the time of year when you can finally wear that winter beanie you bought with the giant, fuzzy ball dangling from it that made your boyfriend say, "You're seriously going to buy that? It looks like you have an animal on top of your head."
Obviously I'm going to buy it. I've been searching for one for months.
It's also the time of year when you can pull out your "Fall home decor", according to all of the bloggers and the magazines and Pier One. If you're anything like me (AKA: you live in a 1,000 square foot apartment with your boyfriend and have limited space as it is), your Fall home decor may look strikingly similar to your "year-round/all-of-the-time" home decor. (We have zero storage. I mean, the storage that we do have is doubled as our Vaccuum-Swiffer-Shoe-Coat-Laundry closet. There's not exactly room in there for seasonal throw pillows.)
Kyle and I just got back from Los Angeles last week, where we played one of our new favorite games called "complaining about the weather". Being from Chicago, we are used to things like - rain and snow and stay-inside-because-its-too-cold-to-go-outside temperatures. When Chicagoans complain about the weather, we are complaining because the air hurts our faces and our cars are stuck in a pile of snow somewhere.
When people in LA complain about the weather, they are complaining because it's, like, kind of cold. And is it... raining? Is that rain? Oh, no. "Geez! What is with this weather?"
That's what the bartender at our hotel asked us while we sat downstairs one night for a drink. "What is with this weather?" He asked, referencing the light drizzle outside.
Okay, so it was a little more than a light drizzle. It was raining. Maybe not "build an ark" rain - but full-on "it's gross outside", "get your umbrella" rain. There was also some lightening.
"But at least it isn't snow!" <--- That's what people in the midwest say. Because people in the midwest are familiar with snow and all of the delightful, messy problems it can bring to the party. But you can't say that when you're in LA, because it literally never snows in LA. So if Los Angeles-ians want to talk about the weather, a rare rainy day is their golden opportunity. Unless they want to say, "Can you believe how sunny it is today?", "I know. It is SO sunny."
Alternative title: That Time in High School When I Wore a Poncho and Everyone Was Like: "Why Are You Wearing A Poncho?"
It was a pink poncho. I should clarify that it was a regular, Fashion-y, "Fall wardrobe-y" type of poncho, and not one of these plastic rain-proof things that you'd wear at Niagara Falls. (I don't know if that really needed to be clarified, but I didn't want you to get the wrong idea. I wasn't walking around school wearing a giant plastic bag all day.)
I went back-to-school shopping with my parents every year. And every year they'd make me buy a new pair of tennis shoes (or "gym shoes" as they called it, which also doubled as "everywhere-shoes"), and like, four pairs of jeans. And some sweaters. And if I tried buying anything that was a little too "out there", my mom would usually speak up by asking, "Don't you think that's a little too... out there?"
She did not say anything about the poncho. She could have. She had her chance. I'd picked up the poncho, I had it in my hand - and even at the time, I was still looking for validation. While part of me wanted to look like the model on the poster - wearing said poncho with a matching pink headband and frolicking through the desert - the other part of me was like... dude. It's still a poncho.
I dragged Kyle into the bookstore the other day to "get books for our bookshelf".
We have a bookshelf in our living room that I've recently gained the opportunity to re-decorate. And when I say "recently gained the opportunity", I mean "one of my plants died and it's thrown the entire shelf out of whack and now I have all of this space to fill where my dead plant used to be."
I guess if you gain nothing else from this post - there's a lesson in what happens when you don't water your plants.
I was inspired to write this post because I *didn't* buy a jacket.
Back story - I have fifteen thousand jackets at home. Probably. I haven't counted, but I know that when I open up our "coat closet" (also doubles as our laundry/shoe/vacuum/Swiffer closet) most of the coats that I see in there are mine. Maybe three of them are Kyle's. And one of those I bought for him.
This post could have just as easily been titled "Confessions of a Shopaholic" or "How to be a Crazy Coat Lady" - but honestly, that's a little embarrassing and - based solely on my experience today - I am clearly turning a corner outside of my consumerism mindset.
Exhibit A: I did not buy a jacket. I *almost* did. But then, I didn't! Yay! (Isn't this a great story so far?)
You know how grocery shopping has that cardinal rule about "never go shopping when you're hungry"? God forbid you end up with an extra bag of potato chips.
Sephora should have the same rule. Never go shopping when you're... feeling... shall we say, less than confident. Like, super-model-hot confident, particularly about your face. Because once you get in there.... well, that's it. Suddenly everything you see becomes THAT THING YOU NEED to be mistaken for a dewy-glowy Victoria's Secret model.
This concealer is $80, and claims to have "pore vanishing" powers? It also has the word "clinical" on it, so it must be legit. Everyone knows 'clinical' means 'doctor' - so buying this is kind of like having plastic surgery - for ONLY $80! That's a bargain!
This stuff is called "Poreless Finish Airbrush Powder"... Airbrush powder! Like how they airbrush supermodels on magazines? So if I wear this, people will believe that I look like a supermodel in real life? Well, YEA, duh.
I'm not making fun of people who shop in Sephora like this. Because I genuinely shop in Sephora like this.
This foundation is called "Your skin, but better". So, people will think it's MY skin - just, better. Natural. Naturally flawless skin. This foundation is going to CHANGE MY
LIFE... Face. It's going to change my face. Yay!
I'm not saying I'm PROUD of it, I'm just saying... I am easily swayed by marketing.
Contrary to popular belief - working in the fashion industry was never really my "dream". People always assumed it was because A) I wanted to move to New York City, and B) I liked to go shopping.
That's it. There was also a brief stint during my childhood when I begged my parents to let me pursue a career in modeling because the lady at the mall from the Barbizon Modeling School told me that I could. For a fee. But she thought I had a real "look", so the $750 application fee would be totally worth it.
To this day, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I'd just gone to the Barbizon Modeling School. Maybe that lady WASN'T just trying to scam me as a poor, unsuspecting eighth grader with low self-esteem, maybe I really did have "the look" - if that look was 'glasses and frizzy hair'. Instead my parents got hung up on that measly $750 application fee. Even though I was like, "The lady said it's TOTALLY worth it! I have THE LOOK." And my parents were like, "uh..." and I was like "The Barbizon lady said that! And she knows what she's talking about, SHE WORKS THERE."
Right. She works there. So, she said it because it's TRUE. Not because she's trying to scam my family out of nearly $1,000. She wouldn't do that, she was so nice.