Down on Grandpa's Farm

Some of my favorite memories take place on my grandparents' farm in the 177-person town of Alexandria, NE. Limbo-ing our way under electric fences, learning the difference between cows and bulls, tiptoeing with trepidation toward the bank of the bottomless pond, shrieking in fear when my sister and cousins pretended to be Indians on the warpath.... (I'm from Nebraska. I was an impressionable child. Give me a break.)

Right before he passed, my Grandpa sold a solid chunk of acres to the state. All I know is that the purpose somehow relates to sewage, so I decided now was a better time than later to take yet another trek across the cornfields - with my sister, now as a less vengeful companion, my mom as tour guide, my father as grudging photographer, and my adorable nephew as a prop.

The things this bridge has seen...

Sorry, John Deere, Grandpa was Farmall forever

Children of the Corn II: The Offering

This house had once been turned into my Grandma's Craft Haven. The street number 308 happens to be the same as my Gypsy Haven. Coincidence? I think not.

The Outfit: St. John cashmere coat with leopard print lining. I received it as a gift during my high heels-higher hemlines phase of life, and only recently unearthed it from the back of my closet. Yay, growing up! Vintage dress. UGG Australia's Belcloud boots - excellent for swamp-stomping.

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.

                                                                             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

Quiet Rebellion

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.

Eventually. 

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

About to find out how days in a row you can wear the same outfit before your neighbors start to notice.

Jesus Wanted Me to Jump

Saturday afternoon, I jumped off of a cliff. Intentionally. People who are well-versed in my love for adventure were unsurprised. People who know full-well how dearly I cling to the existence of my life were dumbfounded. I was somewhere in the middle. This vignette focuses not on the views of these nay and yay sayers, but on Jesus. Because, as you may have gathered from the title of this post, it was Jesus who wanted me to jump.

Let me back up.

A friend of mine mentioned cliff-jumping. I said I was totally down. I thought I meant it. Then I started thinking about my life, and how much I love having it. I’m a Taurus; I like having things. I concluded that adventures like skydiving and paragliding are awesome because they have built in safety precautions. They also have someone to blame when things go awry. In cliff jumping, there is no one guaranteeing your existence post-activity. Ok, there were 11 people doing this, but they were holding Tecates at the time, which slightly diminished their credibility. 

Fast forward two weeks. Friend is moving to NY. Friend decides cliff-jumping will be his stellar going-away activity. Conflicted, I hesitate but eventually agree, although I make no promises to fling myself from any elevated heights. Friend gives limited details as to what is involved in this escapade.

I figure we will drive somewhere, with cliffs over-looking large bodies of water, and proceed to jump off said cliffs in our bathing suits. I picture flat lands complete with bathrooms and drinking fountains. With this in mind, I slather on a solid dose of sunscreen, tie on a bikini, throw on a crop top and a frilly skirt and trek out the door in my comfy black loafers, towel and flip flops in tow. 

When I get to the apartment where we are all meeting up, I realize that almost everyone else seems to be in tennis shoes. Hm. Seems like an odd choice for a casual stroll off a cliff. 

We walk over to grab some breakfast sandwiches while we wait for our crew to assemble. We choose to take it as a good sign when two of the actors from Lost show up – separately. Water. Cliffs. Death. Good to see the day has a theme.

18,000 wrong turns later, we make it to San Dimas. To a trail. Specifically, a hiking trail. Well-worn loafers are not conducive to maintaining traction. I am beginning to sense that I am ill-prepared for the day’s activity. I manage to scramble up the path with the group to the cliffs where I get a good look at the 45 feet separating us from the grotto and reaffirm my decision to stay on land. Unfortunately, I am 12 and I really do like to have adventures, even if said adventures have possible life-threatening side-effects. I also don’t like to not do something that everyone else is doing, because I am awkwardly competitive.

I decide I will jump. Problem. The route to get back up to the top post-jump is arduous and requires footwear. I am not taking this leap of tangible faith in my loafers. 

I am defeated. My games are done for the day. 

This is where Jesus comes into play. Sitting on the rocks, near our belongings, is a pair of beaten up Vans. They don’t belong to anyone in our group, and there is not another soul to be found. Abandoned shoes! I check the tags. At first glance, I see a size 8 and decide that I’ll attempt to shove my feet in them anyway. I look closer. They are a men’s size 8. This means they are a women’s size 9.5. For those of you failing to grasp the gravity of this situation, I am a size 9.5. These discarded kicks are exactly my size. Miracle much?

Ok, Jesus. I'll jump. Into the water that is - don't go getting any crazy ideas.

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. 

Can You Zip Me Up?

You’re shopping.  You find a super-cute dress.  You go to try on super-cute dress. Super-cute dress is cut really tight at the arms.  Super-cute dress is impossible to zip all the way up.

Thank God for overly-helpful salespeople!! One quick yank and you’re all set. Super-cute dress looks super-adorable on - you can hardly wait to wear it to work tomorrow!!

…

The next morning, you come to the startling realization that you still can’t zip the dress up by yourself.  And yes, this is actually surprising to you.  Somehow, you thought that once you were at home, you and the dress would be able to work together a little bit better - that maybe your natural zipping motions were stunted in the unfamiliar territory of the dressing room, but once in your natural habitat…

Nope. Not even a little bit. 7 minutes and 2 mangled fingernails later, you head out your door half un-done, bbming a co-worker to meet you at the elevator for a quick zip job.

…

I really shouldn’t live alone.

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.