Archive | Style Matters

Venus in All Her Inglory

It’s only Wednesday and already I consider this week a bust. Normally I would dismiss that attitude as the worst kind of negativity but there just have been so many hurt feelings and misunderstandings all around. I chalk it up to the shadow of Venus retrograde, which lasts three months, only takes place every few years, and governs unresolved mishegos in areas of relationships, money, and all things aesthetic. Expect old family conflicts to resurface, ex lovers to show up, long-simmering fights with partners to rear their ugly heads. Not to mention awkward haircuts, zits out of nowhere, and–o my–nothing in the closet. Goddess knows that’s all been true in my life lately.

Yesterday I found a favorite pair of earrings that had been long misplaced. I wore them all around town like a proud peacock and then promptly lost one on my walk from the gym to the L train. I combed 14th street three times in my search for it and, while doing so, ran into work colleagues. Naturally I was clad in sweaty spandex shorts, greasy pigtails, and a cut-up tee shirt announcing in neon yellow letters: I LOVE GERMAN GIRLS. I looked so professional I could cry. It goes without saying that the earring never turned up. On my way home I walked by some new graffiti that was so VR it made me smile though I felt for the artist’s angst. See above.

My advice, Sirenaders: take an extra deep breath before leaving the house and opening your trap, make no drastic changes to your appearance, home or relationships, and escape as soon as possible to the sea. Friday I’m heading to the relatively pristine waters of Long Beach, where I plan to smile a big oystery smile and offer a mermaid song of submission.La de da….

Riot Grrrl, Meet Space Crone

I spent the early morning rewatching “Kids” for work while separating the contents of my bureau into three categories: Keep, Give Away, Cut Up. It was the third category that conferred the most pleasure. Hacking into clothing that’s failed to live up to its promise always feels so liberating, as if I’ve refused to toe a cruddy line. This morning I made a lacy vest out of a blouse with fussy sleeves, jaunty ankle-grazers out of sagging yoga pants, and a “Flashdance” T out of an oppressive neckline. It all looks a little rough, no doubt about it–my only tool was a pair of a kitchen shears–but those items had it coming. Besides, no matter how many times I wax my brows, you can never take the ’90s out of the girl. I’ll always be more punk rock than polished, just now I call it dowager chic.

Fake It Til You Make It

Back’s still injured but yesterday was a Talking Pictures taping day and I’m too stubborn to cry uncle. So after days of sweatpants and icepacks and salt baths and Big Mama Thornton, I rallied and put on an Audrey Hepburn-on-acid dress and red lipstick. Black pumps, even. It’s all about the fake-it-til-you-make-it, ladies and germs.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy