{Almost daily outfit of the day} On the fringe. 5.29.12

Vintage thrifted suede vest; Lucky Brand 'Indian' motorcycle tee; thrifted Paige jeans; Gap sandals; Urban Outfitters necklace; vintage leather cuff; thrifted Michael Kors watch

I see a lot of weird stuff while thrifting. Indian beaded, acid-wash cocoon jackets. Seventies plaid, fringed ponchos. Polyester jumpsuits with bedazzled collars. Floral shortalls and satin tracksuits and acrylic stripper heels. Most of these items make me inwardly cringe in a way only really tragic fashion trends of the past can. When I do drag one of these items home, they usually hang forlornly and lonesome in my closet as I try to figure out how to wear them before admitting defeat and donating them back.

This vest spoke to me when I was in the Goodwill the other day. It's suede. It's fringed. It's adorned with wooden beads and silver grommets. It would look appropriate paired with leather chaps on a Harley rider. It's strikingly different from anything else in my wardrobe. And it was marked down from $365 to $6.99.

I threw it on with a motorcycle tee and felt pretty hot. And I realized that sometimes it's fun to play against the rules.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Stress relief 2.13.12

Thrifted J Crew blazer; thrifted vintage chambray shirt; thrifted vintage sequin skirt; Spanx tights; Urban Outfitters 6x6 ankle boots; vintage estate sale clutch

Last week was among the most stressful I've had in a long time. My husband was out of town for the week, eating lobster rolls in Boston, sleeping in, enjoying room service, and, I suppose, working.  My kids had a million after school activities to attend, including a two-hour class in which they're learning computer programming. They're eight. They're also nerds. There was thrifting, and household chores, and errands to run, and the final proof of my book to approve, and a dreadful elementary school dance on Friday with a fifties sock hop theme. You have not lived until you've seen middle-aged suburban soccer moms prancing around in ill-fitting poodle skirts. Trust me.

So when the weekend came around, all I wanted to do was sit in front of my laptop in sweats and indulge in a little Pinterest-ing. Okay, a lot. I pinned photos of Katherine Hepburn; kitchens with subway tile and exposed brick; twenties flappers in chemises; turquoise jewelry; and women in sequined skirts and chambray. Hence this outfit.

I wore this to eat barbeque with some friends on Saturday night. Wearing sequins while sitting in a restaurant full of grizzled men in Wranglers was a tad inappropriate, but I didn't care. Life is too short not to overdress.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Cherry ice 2.8.12

Thrifted Calvin Klein blazer; thrifted vintage silk blouse; Gap legging jeans; Jessica Simpson pumps; Vintage Martini clutch

It happened almost every summer afternoon. My friends and I were beached on the sidewalk, attempting to recover from hours spent riding our bikes around the neighborhood, tracing new routes and swerving into sprinklers. The air was sultry with heat, the way August afternoons get in New York. Rivers of sweat ran down our backs. Without warning, a hopeful chirp pealed through the air. Could it be? Was it time? Suddenly it emerged, with a trail of excited children behind it, a white knight sent to rescue us. It was the ice cream truck.

A beacon of joy to every kid on our street, the ice cream truck saved us from heat stroke and fortified us for continued adventures. My friends got strawberry crunch bars, and soft serve with sprinkles, and twin pops, and Nutty Bars. I got cherry Italian ice, the kind in the little cardboard carton with a wooden spork. It tastes tart and sweet and bright, like a cherry exploding on your tongue. Kind of exactly like my silk blouse looks.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Kind of blue 2.6.12

Thrifted J Crew chambray shirt; thrifted vintage suede skirt; Hue tights; thrifted Cole Haan shoes; thrifted vintage Coach bag

In Greek mythology, the god Zeus would cause it to rain when he was sad and storm when he was angry. Because of this, the blue color of the oceans became related to to sadness. But blue is more than symbolic of melancholy. It's the sunny sky of a hot summer day. It's a pair of suede shoes immortalized in a rockabilly standard. It's a bucket of berries ready to bake in muffins, and the pale color of a newborn baby's eyes. Blue is commonly used in the Western hemisphere to symbolize the male gender in contrast to pink used for females, although in the early 1900s, blue was the color for girls (as it had traditionally been the color of the Virgin Mary in Western Art) and pink was for boys (as it was akin to the color red, considered a masculine color.

Blue is also the predominant color in my closet. It's a neutral, a color that seems to go with everything, and the color I reach for the most. This outfit might be the closest I ever get to monochromatic dressing. Zeus would be pleased.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Five a.m 2.3.12

Thrifted vintage blazer; thrifted J Crew button-down; thrifted vintage Levi's (chopped by me); Target tights; vintage thrifted Coach satchel; thrifted Marc Fisher loafers

I have gotten into the bewildering habit of waking up exactly 45 minutes before my alarm goes off. I startle suddenly out of a deep sleep, glance at the alarm clock, curse, and implore myself not to fall back asleep because, well, what's the point. After which I naturally fall back asleep and have a hallucinogenic dream where I'm stuck on the 1 line of the NYC subway and am being chased by a man trying to sell me Anna Wintour's collection of Chanel twin sets. Maybe this is just what happens when you get older. Soon I'll be eating dinner at 4 pm, upping my fiber content, watching old episodes of Matlock and yelling at kids to get off my lawn.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Sure footed 1.30.12

Forever 21 denim jacket; vintage thrifted Wrangler shirt; Gap legging jeans; Target satchel; Jeffrey Campbell 'Lita' ankle boots; Michael Kors rose gold watch; Buffalo Exchange necklaces

As a child, I was struck with the terrible affliction of having flat feet. This meant not only a need for orthopedic inserts for my shoes, but truly ugly shoes to hold them. These were shoes my mom bought at Buster Brown - sensible, solid things that were the equivalent of wearing a station wagon on my feet and made me feel clumsy and awkward.

Fortunately, as a grown woman, my flat feet are no longer a problem. So I can wear the footwear equivalent of a Jackson Pollock painting without hesitation. These Litas are surprising comfortable and made me feel supermodel tall. Six year-old me would have been insanely jealous.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Coco crunch 1.27.12

Thrifted J Crew leather jacket; vintage thrifted Pendleton shirt; Gap legging jeans; Frye 'Heath' boots (eBay)

Allow me, for a moment, to pontificate on cereal.

Cereal is the world's most perfect food. Think about it. When you don't feel like cooking, cereal is there. When you want something sweet and crunchy, cereal satisfies your craving. And when you need a snack, cereal is ready to nibble straight from the box. A comforting beacon in a world full of complicated choices, a bowl of cereal will never let you down.

When I was a kid, cereal came in two options. There was the boring, tasteless, unsweetened variety that languished in the back of your pantry and needed to be doctored with a hearty dose of sugar and raisins and maybe even bananas to be palatable. This is where the Rice Crispies, Cheerios, Special K and Shredded Wheat fell. Then there was the sugary stuff. This was the packaged crack you begged your mom to buy, the kind with cartoon characters on the box and marshmallow stars and a toxic level of corn syrup and turned your milk an interesting shade of pink or blue. This was cereal so lethal it gave you instant diabetes and essentially turned you into a hyperactive brat.

I wasn't allowed to have those delicious bowls of chemical delight. No, I was stuck with Rice Crispies. I hated Rice Crispies, and I was insanely jealous of anyone my age who was allowed to eat the good stuff. I spent many a morning daydreaming about when I would finally be a parent myself, and thus allowed to eat whatever the hell I wanted for breakfast. I intended to stock my pantry with Coco Puffs and Captain Crunch and Trix and my mom wouldn't be able to do a damm thing about it. I would show her.

So what did I eat his morning, as I huddled in vintage Pendleton wool to chase away the winter chill? A big, hearty bowl of Rice Crispies. Because much like my outfit of oversized shirt, skinny jeans and boots, it's tough to beat the classics.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Pose 1.25.12

Hunt. Gather. Style vintage Jordache blazer; thrifted J Crew blouse; thrifted J Brand jeans; Old Navy belt; Dolce Vita wedges; vintage thrifted Coach satchel (win its twin in  my giveaway!)

I can't recall the names of the first personal style blogs I ever read. I don't remember the first posts I skimmed, or what the outfits contained within them looked like (though I am almost certain they involved Jeffrey Campbell shoes.) But I very vividly remember the bewilderment I felt. Who were these women with their penchant for posing in public? What made them drag their cameras and tripods or boyfriends or best friends out into the woods or parking lots or alleyways or abandoned warehouses to take pictures of themselves? What motivated them to do so? Was this vapid narcissism run amok or a new, revolutionary art form? What the heck was going on, anyway???

Yesterday I became one of those women. For the first time in the history of my blog, I left the safely guarded confines of my backyard for an alley with an even more interesting brick wall than I usually pose in front of. I ignored the curious looks of passerby. I gathered my strength, smiled widely, posed, and got the hell out of there. It felt curiously great.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Members only 1.23.12

Vintage thrifted suede Member's Only jacket; vintage thrifted suede skirt; thrifted J Crew long sleeved tee; American Apparel tights; vintage Frye boots (eBay); thrifted Michael Kors rose gold watch

Today, I am a Member.

The Members Only jacket was one of those strange little pieces of 1980's fashion iconography that was beloved by both cultural icons and basement-dwelling Dungeons and Dragons geeks. Joined by such bizarre creations as neon leggings and boxy blazers, it's part of a select group of vintage clothing that has inexplicably become embraced by today's hipster. I blame the knit cuffs and epaulets, which help the wearer channel their inner rebel while respecting their sartorially challenged nature.

When I thrifted this jacket a year ago, I wondered about the person who originally owned it. Did they wear it with peg-legged jeans while engaged in competitive role playing games? Did the jacket encourage them to imagine they were Michael J Fox, out for a martini at some garish neon-accented bar? Maybe they wore it to a Hall and Oates concert and bragged to their friends that it was genuine suede, and thus rare and expensive. Who knows.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Ode to a vintage sequin jacket 1.16.12

Buffalo Exchange vintage sequin jacket: thrifted J Brand jeans; thrifted Gap long-sleeved tee; Dolce Vita ankle boots; Bloom clutch

Dear vintage sequin jacket,

We met innocently enough. It was an unusually warm January day, leading a girl to dream of picnics and leisurely strolls through the park. I was wandering through Buffalo Exchange, browsing through racks of mini dresses, sheer metallic blouses, silk tunics, plush vintage furs and crushed velvet overalls when my hand brushed against your embellished sleeve. You winked at me knowingly, sequins reflecting the bright overhead light.You knew I would have a difficult time resisting you. I examined your rows of white bugle beads and tiny embroidered sequin flowers. I was entranced by your delicate lavender and pale green beading against white silk. We considered each other. I asked myself if I really needed another vintage sequin jacket. Were you worth $16? Did I even have room for you in my nearly overflowing closet? And what in the world was I going to wear you with?

So here we are together, vintage sequin jacket. I'm pleased with how you elevate an ordinary Gap long sleeved tee to something special. I'm glad you are in my life. I can't quit you, vintage sequin jacket. We were meant to be.

{Almost daily outfit of the day} Flummoxed. 1.6.12

Thrifted Gap cardigan; American Eagle thermal tee; Gap legging jeans; Gap belt; DSW boots; thrifted vintage Coach bag

I tend to avoid waxing poetic about my clothes too much here on the blog. But today I would like to address the love-hate relationship I have with this cardigan. Wearing it demands the labor-intensive, fastidious, and specific placement of a belt to ensure the presence of my waist and prevention of unflattering bunching and resulting illusion of a food baby. Furthermore, the heavy wool knit demands a cold, blustery day to avoid sweltering to death. However, the cardigan's dreamy colors and cozy hug comfort me in a way few articles of clothing do. I suppose that in clothes, much as in life, you can't have it all.

Almost daily outfit of the day: When in doubt, wear sequins 12.26.11

Thrifted vintage sequined jacket; thrifted Citizen of Humanity jeans; thrifted vintage 1940's Victorian blouse; Bruno Magli peep-toe wedges (TJ Maxx)

When I thrifted this 1960's red and gold sequined jacket back in the spring, I had no idea what occasion would call for it. One does not exactly wear red and gold sequins in normal, everyday life, unless you're someone theatrical and grandiose like Rachel Zoe and have a penchant for dramatic dressing during everyday occasions. Despite a lack of celebrity-infused fashion events and affected Californian accent, I too lean towards the dramatic, so I wore this jacket during my Christmas festivities yesterday, which included glamorous things like watching Elf and eating pie and sweeping errant shards of wrapping paper off the floor. Because if you're going to do Christmas right, it should include sequins. That's just a rule. 

Everybody, Everywear: Sequins and sparkle

Vintage thrifted dolman-sleeve sweater; vintage thrifted skirt; We Love Colors tights; Urban Outfitters boots; earrings from some little boutique in Dallas; Michael Kors rose gold watch

I was thrifting last week in a dusty little Goodwill when I discovered this sweater, tucked into a rack of snap-front western shirts and 80's mock turtlenecks. As soon as I dug it out, I knew we were meant to be together. You see, I have a strange affinity for sequined, sparkly, and glittery vintage tops. We're kind of a thing. When I wear one, I like to imagine I'm a young starlet on the set of some eighties soap like Dynasty. As such, I'd sail through each episode in sequined evening gowns and a cloud of Dior Poison. I'd craft elaborate schemes to destroy my enemies and survive kidnapping attempts with nary a lacquored hair out of place. Sure, I'd have no real reason to be costumed in rhinestones and sequins. But I would, because it's the eighties and that's what eighties starlets did.

This sweater is all eighties glitz and glam - chenille woven with gold thread. It's kind of perfect.

This week I Thrifted: Yellow corduroy

Vintage thrifted fisherman sweater; thrifted J Crew chambray shirt; thrifted Gap corduroys; thrifted J Crew boots; thrifted vintage Coach bag.

It's 1986. I'm in the sixth grade. I have long, frizzy hair that tangles into knots the size of my fist and a binder covered with Lisa Frank stickers. My class is putting on a off-off-off-off Broadway production of a play loosely based on Vivaldi's The Four Seasons (don't ask.) I have been cast as The Sun. This is the penultimate moment of my short, unremarkable theatrical career. I spend weeks memorizing my line, reciting it with the same vigor Shakespearean actors reserve for gut-retching, macabre soliloquies about death. This is a big deal. I am an Actor, and not just any actor - I am The Sun. This is my time.

A week before my performance, I am ushered into the girls room, where a shrill collective of PTA mothers have prepared my costume - a long-sleeved leotard, flimsy sheer skirt, and tights. All in yellow. And not a pale, delicate, dainty yellow. No, this is an aggressive, harsh yellow, the same shade used on street signs to alert traffic and painted on school buses to ensure the safety of children. There was nothing glamorous or regal about this costume. In the harsh light of the bathroom, it looked cheap and unfinished. Where was my crown of glistening diamonds, my scepter, my royal robes edged in sumptuous fur? Where were my golden slippers and dazzling rings?  And, while I was asking, what about my private dressing room, appointed with white lilies, diet Coke chilled to precisely 42 degrees and bowls of red Skittles?  This was an outrage.

I was instantly reminded of this incident when I thrifted these yellow corduroys this week. Corduroy always reminds me of school, with it's strong ties to chilly late autumn weather. And yellow triggers memories of my early theatrical experience, traumatic as it was.

Somehow I learned to function without my royal robes and luxurious appointments, and make yellow work for me. Perhaps that acting thing wasn't so bad after all.

Almost daily outfit of the day: x' (shorts) + y2 (tights) = k e2 (ugh)

Old Navy sweater; thrifted Gap gingham shirt; Gap Outlet shorts; We Love Colors tights; thrifted vintage Cole Haan boots; thrifted vintage satchel

When I was younger, my arch nemesis was math. I hated math. I moaned and groaned through lessons at school. I procrastinated on my homework. I flunked tests in a tragically magnificent manner, earning single-digit scores that led to painful conferences between my parents and teachers. It became kind of a family joke, Elissa and her math problems. Eventually my parents found before and after-school tutors, and I spent long, long, long hours sitting through private instruction, watching the clock tick depressingly towards oblivion.

The worst thing about my math disability wasn't my failing grades. No, the worst thing was the hope and optimism I felt before each test, only to discover that I'd flunked. One particularly tragic exam from my junior year comes to mind. I was absolutely convinced I'd not only passed that midterm, but aced it. Finally I had conquered my math demon. My parents could stop shelling out money on tutors and spend it on something useful, like a pony. Schoolmates would line up at my door, begging me for the secret formula to my math genius. My cousins would stop making fun of me for my inability to calculate fourth-grade fractions. I had made it.

If memory serves me correctly, my grade on that exam hovered in the forties.

I feel that today's shorts and tights outfit strikes a similar chord. When I got dressed this morning, I was sure I'd nailed this look. I carefully studied images on Pinterest with women in shorts and tights, and took inspiration from their denim and boots. I waltzed out of my house with a confident strut. Now, I'm not so convinced. And if a quadratic equation exists that can solve the problem, I'm beyond hope.

Almost daily outfit: Dysfunctional morning 11.15.11

Thrifted Gap cardigan; thrifted J Crew tee; Gap Outlet cargos; thifted Marc Fisher loafers; thrifted Coach satchel; thrifted Michael Kors rose gold  watch; Forever 21 and Charming Charlie bracelets

Today I've given a lot of thought to the phrase "waking up on the wrong side of the bed." It's a really strange expression. How can any one side of the bed be deemed somehow worse than the other? It's all the same bed. There are no Bed Police. Yes there we are, on the wrong side, and in a terrible mood for no good reason.

This morning was one of those mornings. First of all, my alarm had the audacity to go off while I was in the middle of a perfectly delicious dream featuring Gerald Butler and my super secret husband Jeffrey Dean Morgan. I fell out of bed and looked in the mirror, only to see through my blurry vision what looked like a hungover cast member of Celebrity Rehab. Specifically, one of the ones that rolls around the house drunk on Wild Turkey and picks fights with everyone and hasn't brushed their teeth since they became famous in the first place.

Then I took a shower, slapped on some make-up, blew out my hair and tried to figure out what to wear. On days when I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, I am utterly and absolutely convinced there is Nothing To Wear. I capitalize this statement so as to underline the seriousness of the situation.  I have a closet full of clothes, yet nothing is right. It's a mystery akin to Charlie Sheen's success and the taste difference between Diet Dr. Pepper and Dr. Pepper Ten. I tried on a tee and cardigan with three different pairs of jeans. Then I put on a belt. Then I took off the belt and changed to a different cardigan. Then I changed the jeans for skinny cargos. Then I ditched all pieces for a dress and tights. Then I sat on the floor of my closet and seriously considered becoming a nudist.

In the end, I reverted back to my original tee, cardigan and skinny cargos. I would say that this is quite a dysfunctional start to a day. And it's all my bed's fault.

Almost daily outfit of the day: Southwestern drama 11.12.11

Vintage thrifted Wrangler shirt; Gap Outlet cargos; Dolce Vita suede wedges

November 10, 2011 6:10 am

A brief conversation with The Husband

Elissa is in the process of getting dressed. She walks into the closet off her bathroom and carefully chooses a recently thrifted blouse that reminds her of a Southwestern sunset. She smiles to herself, celebrating this recent thrifting score and imagining how the blouse with pair with her skinny cargos.

Husband sleepily enters the bathroom. His face is bewildered.

Husband: That's an...interesting shirt.

Elissa: What do you mean? You don't like it?

Husband: I didn't say that. (Uncomfortable pause) It's just interesting.

Elissa: (Slightly exasperated) You don't like it. Well, I DO.

Husband: Whatever. I've just never seen anything like that. It's vintage?

Elissa: (Defensively) YES.

Husband: I figured. (Gesturing wildly). Time out. Tap the breaks. It's a nice shirt.

Elissa blinks. One can feel the tension in the room, the physical reaction of Elissa as she stares at Husband pointedly. Husband observes insightfully that this exact conversation could have been had over any one of a thousand outfits over the years. The stare at one another, contemplating their next move.
 
END SCENE.

Yes, this shirt is the spirit animal of Wrangler and every horrifying 1980's trend. But I love it.

Almost daily outfit of the day: I'm back, y'all. 10.31.11

Thrifted J Crew denim jacket; Gap Outlet cargos; thrifted Gap Kids button-down; Dolce Vita suede wedges

DUDES. This is the HOTTEST OUTFIT EVER, amirite???






Bam. I just lied to you. I TOTALLY know I look like crap. This is far from my most inspired outfit. My eleven year-old could come up with something more fabulous, and she's a tomboy who has to be cajoled into brushing her hair . In addition, I'm pale. I'm pasty. My smile is forced. I look wiped out. And let's not even talk about my hair. But in my defense, this is the first outfit I've worn in a week that didn't include sweatpants and slippers. I'm not accessorizing with a clutch filled with Kleenex. And I'm not sprawled in a fetal position on my couch, hacking into a tissue and wailing that I am never, ever going to feel better.

People, pneumonia is nothing to joke about. There were moments in the last week when I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that I was GOING TO DIE. I pictured my husband coming home from work and finding my cold, lifeless body crumpled on the ground, kind of like that scene in Steel Magnolias when Dylan McDermott discovers poor sickly Julia Roberts collapsed on the stairs, her hand curled around the phone and a bubbling pot of spaghetti sauce boiling over on the stove and her beautiful, beautiful blue-eyed son wailing next to her, desperately pleading for her to just GET UP and take him trick-or-treating. (Just try to deny that this isn't the very saddest scene you've ever watched in a movie. Go ahead. I'll wait.)

I was NOT going to be Julia Roberts. No siree. So I sent prayers to the gods for recovery in return for things I was going to do once I got better, the kind of desperate promises you can only make when you're deep in the throes of illness. Such as, from now on, I'm going to take my vitamins. I'm going to get 8 hours of sleep every night. I'm going to work out every day, and avoid trans fats, and floss twice a day and watch more PBS and maybe even add some charity work because, what the hell, it can't hurt.

YEAH, I can feel your side-eye from here.

So bear with me here. Things could be a lot worse. This could be a photo of me hacking into a tissue. Be grateful that it isn't.


(I have an awesome giveaway coming tomorrow, just to thank you all for not deserting me during Pneumoina Germpocalypse 2011. Say tuned.)