Animal Magnetism

“You’re not buying anything today you’re not buying anything today don’t even look in the window you’re not buying anything today.”

I repeat this mantra, half silently, half whisper willing myself to walk right by my favorite vintage store. Its convenient location - directly in between my house and one of my favorite writer cafes - is less convenient for my wallet, and I’ve recently placed myself on a bit of a spending freeze.

“You’re not buying anything today you’re not buying anything today don’t even look -”

F*ck. I don’t (even) look in the window, but waving outside the store, pretty much literally catcalling me, is an enormous lion head, printed on a maxi tank dress.

…I’ll just try it on.

We all know how this goes. I try it on. I fall in love. I talk $20 off the price and hand over my credit card. (Thanks for nothing, will power.)

I MEAN JUST LOOK AT IT.

A touch too roomy in the top, my fierce little feline spent a few days with my tailor down the street, and was released just in time to be thrown in my carry-on for my Spain trip.

Without further adieu...his inaugural debut at Park Guell in Barcelona:

I’d be lion if I said I wasn’t in love. 

Danger: Books & Botany

Back in my USC days, I was christened Lady of the Lake by a few fine Sigma Nu gentlemen and an undoubtedly cheap bottle of champagne. As such, it seems almost blasphemous that I have lived in Los Angeles for this many years without ever visiting my namesake. Ms. Lady of the Lake's statue at Echo Park Lake was restored just last year as part of the area's massive rehabilitation project. You won't find her in any of these pics because...well...there's only room for one LotL in a single frame. 

Originally built as a reservoir for drinking water in the 1860's, the lake found itself neglected over the years to the point of almost no return. It was deemed an impaired body of water in 2006. In 2011, the veritable cesspool was closed for rehabilitation, drained and then refilled with 26 million gallons of water. It felt pretty clean to me? Just kidding. This was totally staged. There was no way I was touching that water in a white dress.

Originally built as a reservoir for drinking water in the 1860's, the lake found itself neglected over the years to the point of almost no return. It was deemed an impaired body of water in 2006. In 2011, the veritable cesspool was closed for rehabilitation, drained and then refilled with 26 million gallons of water. It felt pretty clean to me? Just kidding. This was totally staged. There was no way I was touching that water in a white dress.

Behold: Dystopia!

Behold: Dystopia!

I made friends with this family of geese. LOOK AT THOSE GAWKY LITTLE FLUFFNUGS! I don't think it was so much that they thought I was one of them, as it was that they thought that I thought that I was one of them. And then they felt sorry for me. 

I made friends with this family of geese. LOOK AT THOSE GAWKY LITTLE FLUFFNUGS! I don't think it was so much that they thought I was one of them, as it was that they thought that I thought that I was one of them. And then they felt sorry for me. 

We also did our best to creep out  this little guy  as he paraded across the lily pads. And watched  this duck  catch a snail. Lose a snail. Search for a snail. Catch a snail. Lose a snail. And then give up. Which I'm pretty sure serves as proof that persistence doesn't  always  pay off.

We also did our best to creep out this little guy as he paraded across the lily pads. And watched this duck catch a snail. Lose a snail. Search for a snail. Catch a snail. Lose a snail. And then give up. Which I'm pretty sure serves as proof that persistence doesn't always pay off.

The Outfit: Zara lace dress. Shoemint boots. The jacket is a brand called Charles & Victoria - one of the first test shoots I did in NY was for the designers. They're awesome. So are their designs. 

The Book: Brave New World by Aldous Huxley

God Bless America

Him: "Are you wearing a star-spangled bra?"
Her: "I practice non-seasonal patriotism, you finger-wagging Whig."
Him: "And sluttiness. There’s definitely a little sluttiness to this look."  Pauses. Then continues hurriedly. "But, like, Statue of Liberty slutty."
Her: Straight face. Single blink. 

I like to think of this little ode to our-country-‘tis-of-thee as a round-up of middle-class consumerism: Mall brands at the outlets, sample sale selections, resale store goodies, and a dash of affordable e-commerce. Ohhh say can you see. (If you can’t, please sign off immediately and call your optometrist.)

I snagged the open-knit sweater at a 360SWEATER sample sale a couple summers ago, and promptly opened some of those knits a bit further with my snag-happy accessories. I like to pretend those holes are there on purpose. It’s starting to take a heaping spoonful of sass and a healthy injection of apathy to pull off that one in front. 

The striped denim mini is a BeBe outlet find from almost a decade ago. It’s holding on like Hamlet. My favorite thing about this skirt is the figure-flattering ruffle at the top. Warning: Objects in mirror are probably not as skinny-ish as they appear.

The crimson-starred metallic bra is a special little something I plucked from the piles atBuffalo Exchange during my sophomore year of college, in preparation for Beta Halloween. The costume: A vague interpretation of Wonder Woman. It wasn’t really working for me. Really hoping those photos never surface. Especially that one of me on the bus…let’s not talk about it. 

The lace-up boot is ShoeMint’s Suki. I used to wear this pair of legitimate sidewalk stompers with everything until I forgot all about them, leaving them to breathe in the fumes at Fast & Best Shoe Repair. Really excited for this whole reunion situation.

Really.

The bag? Well, that’s my work bag. (Also ShoeMint.) It wasn’t supposed to be in the photo. Talk about a Stage Five Clinger. 

Takes one to know one? (Yes, I just wanted to beat you to it.)

God. Bless. America. 

Photo Credit: ithinkironyisSOfunny

Walking on the Wildhack Side

Modern sky-almost-scrapers, vintage vignettes, ill-treated veterans huddling for warmth...Downtown Los Angeles seemed the ideal setting for a session with Slaughterhouse Five. I also decided to experience all the decades of my life - plus a few of yours in my ensemble. Because I like to wear my over-achiever tendencies like a badge. Minus the badge. (Unless it's, like, super kitschy and eighteen different kinds of adorable - then I'm totally in. Obviously.)

                       Just waiting for the Tralfamadorians. They’ve always taken so long to pick me up this time.

                       Just waiting for the Tralfamadorians. They’ve always taken so long to pick me up this time.

                                                                             Glass case. Emotions. Meh.                    

                                                                             Glass case. Emotions. Meh.                    

The Outfit: Dress: Vintage Onesie: Kate Young for Target Hat: Vintage Shoes: ShoeMint Ring: JewelMint

The Book: Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut

Miniature Man Myth

Dear Men of the World,

When I throw an oversized sweater over-top a full-length formal gown, while rocking DIY spray-painted wedge platforms and a messy ponytail…I am not looking for your attention.  I am probably sick. Or cold. Or, as was the case last Wednesday, a combination of the two.  If I were looking for your attention, I would hook myself into a push-up bra, shimmy into a rash-inducing polyester/spandex body-con dress from Wet Seal, and strap my feet into a pair of stripper stilettos. As was the case last Friday.* Let’s not complicate things here.

Xo Stacie

*That wasn’t actually the case last Friday. Shuddershuddertwitchtwitchtwitch.

 

The Scene: I’m walking past the Four Seasons, en route to a BFF brunch at my beloved La Convo. Unfortunately, just before I hit the corner, I get wrangled into a less-yummy breed of conversation. 

The Players: Miniature Man (a height-challenged gentleman, with a flock of blond hair, straight off the set of Wall Street, who came trotting up on my left side out of NOWHERE)& Me (head down, fingers gripping the ends of my sleeves, under-the weather and under-enthused by the concept of speaking with strangers)

Miniature Man: I know someone who wants attention!

This is not so much an ice-breaker as it is an ice-creator. Congratulations, MM. I already hate you. 

Me: Who?

I don’t even have the energy to play this game right now. Or ever, for that matter.

Miniature Man: Pointing at my ensemble That looks spectacular!

Me: Thanks. It’s super-cozy. 

Please leave me alone.  Also, why are you walking right next to me/why am I unable to throw you off with my frequent slash drastic changes in pace?

Miniature Man: You must be an M-O-D-E-L.

Please. Like I’d be able to spell that out?

I hate people. 

All Black All Day

This torrid little tale (definition 1, not 2), is just another example of how idiot douchebags underrate the practicality slash logic of anyone wearing anything that doesn’t say BRO-CAL across the front. Ahem.

Last Saturday, I had grand plans for the day:

  1. Manhattan Beach to play a little volleyball
  2. BBQ at a friend’s place in the occasionally breezy Hills above WeHo
  3. Possibly a quick stop-by at another friend’s nearby pool party
  4. Hotel Cafe to see a friend’s band perform

You will notice that nowhere in these plans was there a scheduled stop back home. (I’m a huge fan of expedition slash efficiency.)

Sooo how exactly was I to dress? In the magically fickle city of Los Angeles, you can never be sure that boiling temperatures won’t drop to hypothermic levels when the sun goes down.  And a bathing suit isn’t exactly out-on-the-town attire, especially when it is guaranteed to end up in the ocean at some point.

I decided on a black sheer blouse (complete with vertical back cut-outs) tied over my orange bikini, my fav ruffly skirt and ShoeMint’s Hejsa Sandal.

In my DIYed carryall, I packed my Suki Boots, socks, a bag of accessories, a black slip dress and a leopard print bralette.

Great success.

I felt officially prepared to take on the entirety of my day, no matter what it should bring.

When I got to MB, I found a stellar parking spot, just a few blocks from my friend’s place.  As I trekked over, I hit a crosswalk at the same time as a couple of surfers.  A peripheral glance led me to believe they were decently attractive, but my ego prevented any sort of a full assessment.

As we crossed, one of the surfers took note of the a-hole driver who almost took me out, tossing a conspiratorial comment my way. I smiled shyly, in recognition of his remark, keeping my eyes glued to my BlackBerry in heightened awkward timidity.

I turned left and they continued straight. As they passed the bushes on the corner, Surfer #1’s friend muttered a query of his own. With a tone. “How can you wear all black to the beach?”

First of all, I can still hear you.

Second of all, hashtag go f*ck yourself.

Thirdly, I would be more than happy to break it down for you.

And that hat is disgusting.