Jumpsuit party in my pants! In case you were wondering if it is possible to make my significant other nauseous with just one item of clothing, this thing eternally proves it to be so. I picked it up many a moon ago in Madrid while my friends were asleep in the hostel — a key fact, since one of them flat out forbade me to purchase it and I had to sneak back, complete with terribly broken spanish and a wad of cash, to make it mine own. I guess this onesie is one of the most rebellious things I've ever done in the name of fashion...next to having to strip down in public bathrooms and hope no one walks in on my trembling, naked body peeing in a teeny-tiny stall. (This is the downfall of jumpsuits they carelessly never warn you about. There should be a ticket attached to them reminding you about open-top peeing when you buy them or something.)
I like to call this one my Daria phase...just kidding. I would call it "fall", but please! We don't get that any longer here in NYC. My uptick in strategic recycling has strongly correlated with the fact that, god damn you greenhouse gases, I want my favorite season back. But, until then, I'll be wearing camo to represent my opposition to the current sky trends.
Mail time! I got a super special package in the mail from my homies over at Tortoise & Blonde with this translucent little bugger inside. If strippers have claimed clear heels to be their shoe uniform of choice — pardon my recent Chris Rock standup binge — then surely I can absorb crystal-colored eyewear as the spectacles of choice for those who have a tendency to dress like an eccentric grandparent by way of a 1985 disco party? Or, at a minimum, to be utilized to look for the transparency I seek out in the world?
(Shouldn't take too much effort to guess who's been writing a couple of cover letters lately.)
It's like one of those "One Coat, Four Ways" type of things, except that I did actually sort of have my playtime sillies with this Tucker zigzag. From collegiate layers for an afternoon at the NYPL next to comfy meeting-and-errands duds to my "working artist on a coffee run" overalls and toy Barbie heels below, I don't really know where the overlap in my clothes confers. Plastic bows? Yes. Vintage band tees? Yuhs. Teal? Tie-dye? Tank tops? YezYezYez. Hot damn, I must be difficult to shop for. Well, unless your shopping cart is filled with eyewear, of course.
You know when you put on an outfit and everything just clicks? And you go, Yesssss! to yourself because it's like all of those back issues of Lucky have finally manifested themselves in your subconscious and you're now able to pick out an outfit like a big girl? Well, I don't, because this doesn't happen to me. Ever. So, when I discovered this get up — perfect for the final few days of summer, comfortable enough to work in all day long and had ample room for my lanky arms to breathe — I wore it three times in a week. Oh—I mean, uh, I wore it and then carefully folded it back into my closet and returned to a world wherein I don't get dressed 35 seconds before I need to be out the door. That, that's what I meant.
An odd smorgasboard of things I've worn in Manhattan's never ending sea of tears, referred to by most weathermen as, "rain, again, all through the weekend." It gets really tiring to put nice things on when you know the outdoors is just going to turn into a muddy public shower again later that day, but thanks to the greatest female invention since maxipads and our ability to vote — Loeffler Randall's rain booties — going outside in the shitstorm that has become the Big Apple is that much less depressing. I'm losing my Chicagoan edge against crap weather more and more by the year, but what can I say? At least it's better than an ice-covered Wonderworld. Cross your fingers we don't have to ice skate to Duane Reade this winter.
Adventures in hats! From mushrooms to felt cowboys, I'm starting to get the feeling I'm not a "hat person". A large skull, wide forehead and necessity for glasses surely should have predisposed me to this, but perhaps there's no better time to learn what not to wear.
The resemblance between me and this shabby chic cartoon is uncanny.
And, last but not least, I'm seen here with my new favorite accessory, Mr. R. L. STINE. Yes, you heard that right. The Master of Terror! The author of fear! The man who made you scared to be in the kitchen bathroom basement anywhere at home alone at night! I met the grandpop wonder at a taping of The Chris Gethard Show a couple of weeks back. He told me I shouldn't have been so terrified. If only he knew the number my mom did on me in regards to parking lots, stranger danger and how to escape being locked inside a trunk. Now that series — Jewish Neurosesbumps — would be a horrifying, nightmare-causing best-seller. But, there probably wouldn't be zombies living underneath the dining room in that one.