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.
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.
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
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.)
The Outfit: Dress: Vintage Onesie: Kate Young for Target Hat: Vintage Shoes: ShoeMint Ring: JewelMint
The Book: Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut
Because I love a good (read: obvious) theme, when I trekked out to Greystone Manor for a quiet afternoon with my current Camus (Rebel, duh.), I wore my finest black and reveled in insurgency.
Stats: 63 pages read. One security guard beguiled.
The Outfit: Top: DIY leather/wool crop top Skirt: H&M Socks: Hansel from Basel Shoes:Sam Edelman Jewelry: Jewelmint
The Book: Rebel - Albert Camus
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.
*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.
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.