HOME

The long weekend is winding down, my newly THREE year old (as of today!) is sound asleep by 6:30, bless his heart and the house is very very quiet. In this room, its just me and SuperGirl (that's the baby girl swimming around in my tummy) wondering at the the peace that can be found in the white noise of the blowing heater and whirring computer. I'm exhausted, but for all good reasons.

We signed papers on the house today. It is big and lovely and open and airy... all the things a new house ought to be (in California anyway). I couldn't be happier, and yet for reasons I can attribute only to emotional overload and pregnancy hormones, I'm a bit of a teary wreck today.

Nevertheless -- it is our home. I can feel it. The bedrooms are cozy (read: small) but there are four of them, and the downstairs living area is decidedly not small, which is really where we'll spend the most of our time anyway. My especially favorite part is the kitchen and its bay windows, island, and openness, and the back yard, while small, is overflowing with potential in my imagination. The back yard is facing North, so it will be nice and shady when its hot outside. Halfway up the staircase it turns and there is a landing that has two sides facing out bordered with railing that Little Boy Blue has already stood upon and christened "The Tower" and so the tower it shall be.

So now the business of escrow and appraisals and inspections and papers, papers, papers to sign. But on Valentine's day, we'll have our new home. What could be more romantic?

A Long-Delayed Update...

Long time no see...

I was flipping through my mom's lovely blog this morning and suddenly realized I haven't posted since November. The truth is, my head is so full of baby and house hunting and birthday parties and nesting that it's rarely even occurred to me to put virtual pen to paper. For the loyal few that might be wondering just why my head is so full, I found it in me today to write a little update, though please forgive the lack of flowery prose.

Simply put, I've been the very best kind of busy, and my mind is hardly even wrapped around all the wonderful developments in our life.

First of all, we found out last week that we're (pretty sure, more than likely) having a girl! So every time I close my eyes, I see a sweet little beribboned blond head, ballet slippers, a pink little baby curled up cozy in a creamy bassinet, and my beautiful little boy holding hands and leading his wobbly baby sister through the garden of our new home. Which brings me to the next big item occupying my time.

We're house shopping yet again. We have made five offers on homes this week. One has accepted another offer, so we're down to four, but the options are still quite good. Each home is beautiful in a unique way, and every one has at least a little back yard. No patio homes for us! I'm desperate for a yard I can tend myself and lay out a quilt on the pokey lawn to sun and picnic with my husband and babies. I don't need much, but a little soil, greenery and sun are enough to make me breath a little easier. And each of these houses has a little bit - just enough - of what I need. The reality of the situation is that we may not get any of these homes, as the market for bank-owned homes is still pretty competitive, but we have a dedicated realtor who is moving heaven and earth to have us moved into our new place before the baby arrives.

Last but not least, my little boy has a birthday coming up next week, and so as the preparation for Christmas transitions swiftly into the preparation for birthday, my days are as full as ever. With all the expenses we're anticipating of buying a home and moving, this is a birthday on a shoestring, but I've been preparing my whole life for that. As I've said before, one of the most valuable lesson I learned from my parents is How To Do a Lot With a Little, and that's exactly what I intend to do.

With that in mind, I must sign off to return to party planning, birthday shopping, baby-dreaming and mentally decorating an unknown home. But its been nice to share with you little piece of my bliss.

A Handmade Christmas

Thanks to my mom, my most prolific source of inspiration, and her insatiable taste for things unique and handmade, I've recently been introduced to the MULTITUDES of handmade/homemade "indie" goodies available for online shopping. Add to that my every autumn urge to paint, piece, sew and render things lovely and my sister-in-law's "never met a project I wouldn't tackle" approach to art and crafting and an idea begins to brew in my mind.

I'm talking about a handmade Christmas. I've had ideas of things to make for my loved ones filed away in the "some Christmas" category of my mind for years, and I think this just might be the year. I think it sounds a little ambitious, but I don't plan on doing it alone. There are suitable, one of a kind gifts for the men, women and children we love at Etsy, and better still there are craft sales and boutiques just about everywhere you turn in your own neighborhood this time of year -- including the one at my house. Last year was the first of what I hope will be an annual boutique I held with a few of my creative friends and family members where we sold jewelry, candles, art, ornaments, gifts, and decor stuff we each made in our own little kitchens and craft rooms. With a little Christmas music, some hot apple cider and my moms snickerdoodles, we sold a few things (some of us sold a LOT of things) and just generally had a really great time. This year friends and neighbors have started to ask us if we're doing it again, and when.... and you know you've got to give the people what they want.

I don't think this will be as easy as the typical year where 75% of my shopping is done at Target the rest at cute little shops and yes, even the mall, but I do think it'll be fun. Now, I don't imagine I'll be able to find homemade equivalents of the bike we intend to buy my son, and the sunglasses my husband visits weekly at No Fear, so I'm not going to be ultra strict about this, but I do plan on altering my mass-produced/thoughtfully rendered ratio.

So as I formulate my plan to make or buy handmade gifts for as many people on my ever-growing list as I can manage, I think I'll keep you updated on my sources. If I find something cool, I'll share it with you. If I make something cool, I'll post it (and I suppose if you see anything you like, you can buy it too, wink wink). And if you have any brilliant ideas or resources to help in my quest, comment or email me, and I'll share your ideas too.

Check out Modish

Does handmade swag from indie designers make you swoon, too? Then check out Modish, a veritable feast of goodies, and all things wonderful. Swing by to enter to win a BIG prize through the end of November... all the lovely items you see here and then some. We're talking about a jackpot here, folks. Spread the word and take advantage of your chance to win. I want those owl cards, though, so feel free to send them my way if you DO. :)

A Goodnight Kiss

Last night, full to overflowing with love and joy, I was talking to my husband about my favorite time of day. It may not sound all that exciting, but every night when I put our son to bed, there is something to learn, something to smile about and something to move me.

I'm too tired to write a description that will do justice to my nightly motherly bliss, between a day of ambitious organizing, the growing baby in my belly and the growing toddler in the next room... but like his sweet prayer, I have something too precious to keep to myself.

After stories and songs and prayers, after the goodnight kisses and exchanged "I love you's" my little one whispered a secret to me before I made my way to my own bed....

It was three little words I never could have imagined I would hear:

"God kissed me."

I'm sure he did, too. I can't remember the age of my innocence, so I don't really remember what that feels like. Or, I should say, I didn't. Because, through my child yet again, God touched me - and I suppose that feels something like a kiss.

A Simple Prayer

Sometimes the simplest words can be the most beautiful. If having a child hasn't taught me that, then I just might be incapable of learning.

Every night I say prayers with my son, who will be three next January, to give you perspective on his age. First we say the prayer I used to say as a child, the one that starts "Now I lay me, down to sleep..." which is followed by asking for blessing for "our Grammies and Papas, Aunties and Uncles, our cousins and our friends." Then we simply thank God for all of our blessings and ask for forgiveness for our sins. After the "amen" we started several months ago to say the Lord's Prayer. My little boy follows along and pronounces words the best he can, and his "Our Fodder" is enough to melt any heart.

But last night, he wanted to say his own prayer. He was adamant that he wanted to do it alone. So I kissed him goodnight and turned out the light and stepped outside his room, reminding him to say his prayer before he went to sleep.

As soon as I was outside the door, this is what I heard:

"Dear 'Word,' Goodnight. Thanks for evewything. I love you. Amen."

I had to go back in there. I told him how happy he made God because he wanted to talk to Him, and because he had said he loved Him, and told him how much God loved him too.

He didn't say anything, just snuggled down into his blankets and closed his eyes, grinning.

I love the rhythm and meaning of the Lord's Prayer, and say it often in addition to my personal, specific prayers. I have always taken comfort in its language and depth.

But last night, I found beauty in the simplicity of a prayer that I wasn't supposed to hear.

Bats in the Attic...

and a bun in the oven.

Yes, I'm referring to myself.

Lo, the previously mentioned personal announcement: I am with child. Expecting. Knocked up (can you be knocked up if you're married? I'm not sure about that.)

Or, as one friend refers to it "sick with baby," as seen in a poorly translated foreign film or something.

I've been too "sick with cold" this week for this to completely sink in, but rest assured that my husband and I are delighted and thankful and feeling very blessed.

If you can be just a tiny bit pregnant, then that is what I am. It is very early. In fact, our original intention was to wait a bit longer to share our news with those outside the family. But, as my doting husband is prone to unbridled enthusiasm when he is happy or excited, there was a wee slip-up that resulted in him announcing the pregnancy via his status on Myspace to his 120-odd closest friends, family, musicians and comedians. These of course included probably upwards of 50 mutual friends, many of whom were my best friends and close family members who hadn't yet heard the news. I've decided to find this endearing and innocent, which it certainly was, but I also figured... hey, I have an even bigger audience! With even fewer people I know!

So, there you have it. That's the rationale behind announcing my pregnancy via blog. I promise to share a lot of my joy and none of my ultrasound pictures.

And now you understand why I have bats in my attic, too.

That Fickle Muse Again

No sooner did I decide I was going to add a new blog to house my personal political snarkiness than I completely lost my inspiration, and very nearly my stomach for politics, in one fell swoop. All of the vapid celebrities peddling their Obama hype and Palin-as-the-personification-of-stupidity sound-bytes have finally drained me of my good humour over all of this. I hope my will to overthrow the heights of liberal arrogance with sarcasm and a smile will one day return, but for the time being I have other things on my mind. Look forward to a personal announcement.

XO,
Elizabeth

No Cats in America and No Crackheads in Alaska

Ahhh, Diddy. You make this too easy.

Here's a little bit of Sean Diddy, never-ending font of wisdom Combs' take on the Palin nod. If you want to watch the actual video, be forwarned that it is littered with f-bombs and brain-exhausting ignorance.

"You are buggin'. I don't even understand what planet you are on right now"

"This is the job to be the leader of the free world, OK? No disrespect. I love you. I want you to live to be 110. But things happen. What if God forbid, you got a running mate, you become president ... Alaska? Alaska? I don't even know if there's any black people in Alaska."

"Lady's nice, she's cool ... she's a heartbeat away. She's gonna be on the phone with South Korea. I mean, what in the hell ... Alaska? You should've gotten Michelle Obama to be your running mate. Now that would have been something strategic and fly. This one right here, is not respectful of our lives, diverse lives."

"You my man, God bless you. You're a great war hero, but you are bugging the F---out."

"I'm going to bring millions out to the polls November 4 to make sure the young people ... come out and get busy on ya'll asses on November 4th ... Alaska? What is the reality in Alaska. There's not even crackheads in Alaska ... no black people. No crime."

Is that anything like "there are no cats in America?" Yes, the was a Fievel reference. Oh boy.

John McCain. Are you listening? Michelle Obama! Why didn't you think of that?! That would, indeed, have been fly. And also, what if you do not live to be 110, and you die in office and this woman, this lowly governor, is forced to talk on the PHONE with SOUTH Korea? South KOREA?!?

You've been put on notice Sen. McCain and Gov. Palin: the youth of America are going to get busy on your a**es at the polls, per request of Sean Combs, if we're going to use "government names." Consider yourselves warned.

I don't, I can't... I'm just at a loss for words. Diddy, it really takes the wind out of of my sails when you're so ignorant and yet pompous that you effectively mock yourself.

I love election years. And rappers. Oh, the love.

Why Gov. Palin's Daughter's Pregnancy has Nothing to do with Politics

And so it begins.

If you're reading this, you obviously have access to the information super-highway we call the internet, which means that by now you already know that Gov. Palin's 17 year old daughter is five months pregnant. There's a lot of speculation about whether this will hurt the McCain campaign. It's understandable, if unfortunate, that this is up for discussion. No doubt there are people who care. I suppose that makes it news. Or, as it seems to be in the world of news blogging, blood in the water.

The following is a comment from an AOL News blog:

"Bohio65 07:32 PMSep 01 2008

This is just ONE of many cans of worms about that lady.McCain wanted to use her for political gain. She is quickly becoming a political EMBARASSMENT for him. I salute McCain's poor judgment. If she cannot watch over her own 17 y.o. daughter, how can she watch over us as vice president. I have made up my mind: I will vote for Obama /McCain. I will not take any chance with her." (sic)

I'm happy to acknowledge the widely accepted truth that there are lots of idiots who post comments on those blogs. Not on mine. Never on mine. But on posts such as the one in question, this was tame in comparison with the multitudes of other hate-filled, incoherent, profanity-laced responses. I just chose this one because, after activating my brain's hand dandy Stupid-Filter, I could decipher enough to formulate a rebuttal. And I chose to take it on here, rather than in the ever-engaging debate format of the unmoderated blog comments for the same reason I won't argue with my two year old son: You can't argue with someone who is immune to or unaware of reason and logic.

In order to prevent idiocy-brain-freeze, I'm going to take this on in small bites instead of one big scoop of stupid.

My line by line responses: (perhaps the easiest rebuttal ever attempted)

"This is just ONE of many cans of worms about that lady.McCain wanted to use her for political gain."

I'm going to follow that display of ignorance with a question: Should a presidential candidate select a running mate for political loss? By extension, does that means Sen. McCain should have called up Bret Michaels and said, "Dude, do you think you could put Rock of Love: Season XVI on hold for four to eight years and instead come cruise for skanks in D.C. on the taxpayers' dime? I think the public will really hate you. It's a match made in heaven."

And also, sucky grammar. No, I don't think it warrants proper speech or complete sentences.

"She is quickly becoming a political EMBARASSMENT for him. I salute McCain's poor judgment."

Embarrassment and poor judgement can be overcome. For example, statistically, you are probably married.

"If she cannot watch over her own 17 y.o. daughter, how can she watch over us as vice president."

Thank goodness she isn't running for Vice President of Preventing Premarital Sex. We might be in the clear. Seriously, though, Princes William and Harry have some of the highest expectations of any official progeny in the world, along with what must certainly be the most sophisticated security detail, and the most intense scrutiny. And that hasn't prevented them from drinking, landing helicopters at their girlfriends' houses, sporting Nazi uniforms or otherwise "carousing." I daresay the governor of Alaska has significantly fewer resources. Furthermore, let's assume this young lady knew the consequences that having a child out of wedlock would have in her mother's career, in addition to her own life. Let us also assume that she was well aware of the attention she would be destined to draw as the daughter of the governor, even without the added curiosity incurred by a vice presidential hopeful. Given those factors, she could have chosen to have an abortion. Her suffering would have been internal, leaving her mother unscathed and her private mistakes private. But she bravely chose to tell her parents and eventually the world, and have the baby. This reflects not only on her own maturity, but also on her security in her parents' unconditional love and forgiveness. It is a sad but inevitable truth that the ugly secrets of public families that are swept under the rug are virtually without consequences, and the ones that are handled with grace, integrity and transparency are exploited for adversarial sensationalism, but is has nothing to do with the office of Vice President.

"I have made up my mind: I will vote for Obama /McCain. I will not take any chance with her."

You do that. I'm sure the people in the Obama/McCain camp will appreciate your vote.

McCain Picks Palin: Better than a chick flick

I'm trying not to have a happiness induced stroke. This morning, Sen. McCain announced his running mate in Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin. It came as a huge surprise to this campaign watcher, but a most welcome one. I was okay about the Pawlenty speculation, but am over the moon with this unexpected turn. I can't help but be excited to have a woman gracing our presidential ticket, a fact that I hope will not be lost in this already historic election. But mostly, she represents the conservative ideals but also has a history of standing up to the old guard in her own party when it was necessary, which puts her way over the top in the pro-column for me.

I'm holding back on writing a a full-size post on the virtues of the McCain/Palin ticket because political-punditting isn't my strength, but on a personal level, I couldn't be more excited and optimistic about our chances. Oh yeah, and chicks who wear glasses are taking over the world. Finally.

I have to go do cartwheels now.

It's a Wedding, not a Coronation

I take it back. I take it all back, on behalf of every overly ambitious wedding planner, indulgent mother and brow-beaten bridesmaid, I want to rescind the following statements:

“It’s your wedding; it’s your way or nothing”

“This is the one day in your life for you to be treated like royalty, so make the most of it.”

“It’s your day, yours is the only opinion that matters.”

Sure, if you don’t care about anyone else’s feelings. But first, let us clarify. It is not only your day. A wedding day is not a day devoted to prostrate worship of the bride. It is about a marriage. It is a celebration and public declaration that two people who love each other, intend to spend the rest of their lives together, and are for one another alone.

There is a disconcerting trend, perpetuated, no doubt, by brilliant marketing strategists, popularizing and even glamorizing the “bridezilla.” Certainly it behooves retailers and vendors of all kinds to convince brides (and grooms) to believe they are entitled, perhaps even expected, to have every item, amenity and luxury their hearts never knew they desired for one glorious day of marital reverie. The wedding rituals are so bloated and cumbersome that young couples (and their parents) are spending well beyond their means and deeply indebting themselves in order to finance an illusion. Perhaps “delusion” is a better word. What these people really need is for someone to tell them the truth. Let me be the first. It’s sort of my thing.

To whom it may concern;
Despite what the Bridal magazines and your enabling loved ones have told you, you are not a princess. You Are Not a Princess. You are not the first person ever to be married. You aren’t even the only person to be married that very day within your city or even your neighborhood. You are special to God, your groom and your mother, but your VIP status ends there. Congratulations, someone fell in love with you and wants to marry you. It is truly an honor. But it does not warrant a hero’s welcome. People fall in love every day. And they have been for thousands of years. The day deserves to be filled with beauty, romance, solemnity and joy. However, it is not bestowed upon you alone. Your groom is your equal partner in this occasion. Perhaps he isn’t interested in the plans, or even the execution, but I assure you he is looking forward to showing his loved ones all the wonderful traits he sees in you, that seem to have been swallowed up in tulle and satin as you endeavor to create a “perfect wedding.”

Allow me to simplify that process for you. There is no such thing as a perfect wedding. Not in the sense you seek, anyway. Flowers will wilt, or the DJ will get drunk, your heel might break, the flower girl will get distracted halfway down the aisle and decide it’s the perfect time to sing “boys are rotten, made out of cotton” to the tune of Mendelssohn’s Wedding March. But a day filled with genuine emotion, understated elegance without pretension, and a true desire to share your overflowing joy and affection with the people you love and who love you in an inclusive, sincere and civilized way will be remembered with lasting fondness not only by the bride and groom, but by the other participants and the guests as well.

Does that mean you can’t have everything your heart desires? Of course not. You are only restricted by your credit limits and your own wishes, but as you’ve been learning since you were a toddler, actions have consequences. If you put your bridesmaids in sequined shepherdess dresses the color of gangrene, you’re going to face resentment, and possibly mutiny. If you disinvite children, the young families who don’t live nearby won’t come, and their feelings might be hurt. If you get married in Hawaii, your best friend with $30K in student loans won’t be able to spring for the Monique L’Huillier and the four-star hotel, if she can even afford the trip at all. So you might consider some self-imposed limits, taking into consideration propriety, the feelings of the people you love and the possibility that you might one day find a better use of your money (or your parents’ money) than monogrammed toilet paper for the reception hall. I’m just saying.

Sincerely,
Your friendly local Wedding Consultant/Realist/Voice of Reason

The reason I can speak with authority on such matters, beside the obvious familiarity with this phenomenon which my occupation affords, is that I have seen this from all sides. I have been a bride, and I have witnessed every kind of bride, from the crazy, selfish harpies to the easy-going and full of grace. There are brides who are so full of love and hope that they light up a room as they are intended to, and there are those that suck the life out of it as they implode under the pressure of their own expectations.

A little perspective does wonders for the complexion, so my heartfelt advice is to focus on the marriage rather than the wedding, keep it simple, remember that this is also celebration for your families and that in a matter of weeks, you won’t remember if the table linens were a shade lighter than your “bridal white” satin gown.

Nevertheless, Elizabeth - for realsies

I have a short "letter to my readers" that is less blog than it is a disclaimer. First of all, I have noticed a pattern of a lot of repeat readers checking back on my blog every couple of days, which makes me feel really guilty for not posting more often than I do, because I really appreciate the unlikelihood that perfect strangers (as well as those perfectly acquainted with me) take the time to read my frivolous musings and the occasional ultra-frivolous list.

Anyway, here's the problem. As much as I wish I could post every couple days, I simply don't get inspired that often. For me to write something worth reading, I have to have a unique combination of inspiration, subject matter appropriate for public consumption and time. Time is a big one, because I am the mother of a toddler, and staying up all night either painting or writing was just not doing my skin any favors. Okay, I jest, but seriously, sometimes I do decide to sleep instead of pursuing one of my many creative endeavors. But even more than that, my problem is that when I get excited or worked up enough about a topic to hammer out 500 words in 15 minutes (which is usually how this goes, although, I'll be honest, its more like 1,000) it is usually a somewhat controversial topic, on at least a superficial level, and in some cases not superficial at all.

Its one thing for me to say I don't like Hilary Clinton, but its another for me to write an essay taking her to task as inhumane and unpatriotic. Its one thing for me to jovially harp on bridezillas to my friends, but its another for me to write a 10 paragraph diatribe about selfish brides and ridiculous consumerist bridal customs that is sure to make me sound like a bitter and jaded wedding pro to those who can't see my tongue permanently planted in my cheek. I have drafts and partially written posts about the female body image, abortion, bad parents who think they're great parents, MEN, men and MeN, Christianity, Married People Sex, a couple more pseudo-nouveau-retro-feminist rants and several posts that read more like journal entries than the somewhat detached from my person blogs I usually publish.

Now, I'm finally approaching my point: I realize, this isn't of great consequence, but I do have genuine writing aspirations, which is why all of this matters. The part that mystifies me is that in general, I don't mind making people mad, and I'm not particularly private. I suppose I am pretty selective about the people to whom I disclose personal info, but I'm never one to shy away from expressing my point of view but for some reason this seems like a more public forum than it probably is, hence my hesitation. I've been debating about posting the more personal stuff here or on a separate blog, and the debate lives on, but I think I'm inclined to start posting a little bit more of the stuff that is really super-duper me. Yes, Super. Duper. Me. Case in point. I just think it is a little silly that I have twice as many unpublished blogs and drafts than I do published ones.

So. We'll see if I chicken out, but phase one of my plan is to give some of my older, never-before-seen passages the once over and a healthy dose of editing to serve up like reheated day old bread just for you.

Mmmm.... something smells good.

On Signature Style and the Artful Outsider

In junior high, I had an entire wardrobe of castoff old men’s blazers and sports jackets. I had a couple that had been my moms in the sixties or seventies, but several came from the thrift store. They had to be tweed to make the cut, but I didn’t care how they fit. On the best days, I’d wear them with jeans or jean skirts (if the skirt was recycled from old jeans, so much the better) and either combat boots or Dr. Martens sandals. You know the ones, clunky, leather and extremely comfortable. Then there was the occasional tartan skirt with the giant safety pins, to be worn with the combat boots, obviously.

In high school, the look evolved into more hippy-prep than preppy-grunge. It was hemp necklaces (which I macraméd myself), crocheted vests, jeans and still the jeans skirts, Dad’s old sweaters (moth holes were a big plus) and floaty dresses when it was hot. The Dr. Marten’s sandals were still in rotation, as were the combat boots, but now there were Birkenstocks too.

Midway through high school, I changed schools. In the neighboring town the kids seemed to have more resources and maybe more exposure. It was definitely more diverse. Which is why I was surprised to find much more homogenized fashions. The groups were very well defined, yet the only ones who really dressed differently were the ones who sat out on the lawn and smoked and played their guitars and stashed their skateboards in the bushes next to the school so they wouldn’t be confiscated. I desperately wanted to belong with them. They had style. It was artful and outsider and unselfconscious, but I was pretty sure there was a secret handshake I didn’t know, so I didn’t try. Everyone else seemed to shop at the same place that I had not yet discovered. I tried to adapt but couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t. I never did nail the Abercrombie & Fitch look. In fact, I didn’t even try for long, but the damage it did to my style equilibrium took years to repair.

Now I’ve been out of school and away from the pressures of dressing to fit in for about a decade, and only in the last couple of years have I figured out what my personal fashion philosophy is.
I have a pretty recognizable look. It varies of course, depending on the occasion and the tides of fashion, but there is a common thread that has turned my taste into a signature style. I’ve finally discovered that I already knew what I liked. I know what looks good on me. I know what is comfortable (and what is too comfortable). I know, basically, what makes me feel like me, and not like I’m trying to zip up a Somebody Else Suit 2 sizes too small.

First and foremost is the Black Dress. It is my closest ally. I could -okay, I do- own an entire wardrobe of black dresses: linen for the summer, to be worn with sandals and minimal accessories; cotton and jersey for the cooler months, with leggings and assorted boots, maybe my leopard print cardigan or a gorgeous trench coat. But this is not an homage to the LBD (that’s a little black dress to fashion neophytes and men). Those are for evening. I wear them during the day all the time, which I’m sure would be enough to make a southern belle swoon, but this is California and convention has very little to do with fashion around here.

What I’m talking about is all of the components that add up to a style that’s uniquely mine. Its about the staples of my wardrobe… the pieces that transcend trend and season and ever-evolving fashion logic and lore. This is a tribute to the things that make me feel lovely, comfortable and confident; the outfits that shouldn’t work but do, because they’re all me: my trademark pieces, my signature look. Its what would happen if some Goths got a tan, the country club set was forced to shop at Target and all the world’s pin-up girls gained 30 pounds and found religion, and then they all got together to open a boutique especially for me.

In it you would find lots of black tops and bottoms in addition to the ubiquitous black dress. And a very few pairs of jeans that fit like they were made for me.

But my true love is accesories. My shelves are heavily laden with vintage red clutches, horn-rimmed glasses and giant tortoiseshell shades. There are the pearls. Strands and strands of pearls (real, fake, old or new) and for contrast there’s the chunky jewelry; my favorite pieces manage to marry black metal and chains with feminine ribbons and bows. There are peep-toe pumps and flats -I even had a tattoo on my foot placed specifically to compliment the low cut shapes or the quintessential pin-up girl shoe. And there are black boots in every shape style and height you can imagine. There are trenchcoats and knee-skimming sweaters and of course my trademark leopard print cardigan.

And while not everything I wear falls under these categories or descriptions, there is a sensibility and feeling that is evident in every piece of clothing that I mindfully purchase, and the end result is almost always a style that looks like me.

The beauty of having a signature style (besides making gift-buying easier on your friends and family) is that fashion “rules” get to take a backseat to my personal style. It doesn’t have to be trendy. You might like it, but you probably wouldn’t wear it. And that’s okay, because it’s my look and not yours. What I find now when I venture out into the microcosms that succeed high school and college is that I do belong with those kids with style because I have found my own version of the unselfconscious artful outsider. There never was a secret handshake. The only secret was being comfortable in my own skin. And four inch heels.

Love is