How to Rock Out a Swimsuit in The Hamptons, Part II

Tuesday, July 16, 2019

photo: Joshua Franzos
Beaches and pools and tennis courts oh my. The Hamptons are a luxurious and beautiful spot on this earth, no doubt. Green grass and green hedges rim every. single. house. beach shack. or mansion.You'd think and you'd expect the sounds would match the venue. Perhaps you'll hear the surf crashing on the shore, or tennis balls ponging on courts, or perhaps ice cubes tinkling in drinking glasses, right? Wrong. Sun up to sun down, you hear the omnipresent WUUUURRRRR of gasoline powered hedge trimmers, lawn mowers, and leaf blowers, because miles of beautiful hedges aren't going to trim themselves.Or at least that was our experience. If you've ever seen the movie It Follows, it was like that for us, but instead of creepy ghost zombies following us, it was landscaping noises. Everywhere. And when the noise stopped, we took collective sighs of relief. I will note that we arrived in The Hamptons eight days before The Season officially kicked off. Perhaps the rich people have the landscaping taken care of before they arrive, so that all they hear are the ice cubes and tennis balls. 

There are some good things about arriving before The Season. Less crowds. Less traffic. And the fact that we didn't technically have to get any beach permits. If you are ever planning on an East Coast beach vacation, figure those beach permits out well in advance of your trip because they lock that shit down tight during The Season. Bureaucracy is sexy fun times isn't it?
photo: Joshua Franzos

Speaking of sexy fun times. How about this hat? I found it on Amazon and WOW. It made me think of Slash going to the beach, or the Playboy Mansion. It made Josh think of a scarecrow and Isaac Chroner, the Children of the Corn demonic child preacher. However way you weave it, it's an intense hat that intensely keeps the sun off your face and has a lot of rock and roll and/or creepy cult spirit. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

Since this is a highly accessorized look, it's perfect for pool parties. Especially for those that like to dip into pools to cool off, but don't really immerse themselves. (Hi! that's me.) Chlorine makes my allergies act up. I'd like to bullet point that this bikini is really very modest, so again, great for a pool parties because then you don't feel awkward and other people don't feel awkard about FLESH. Let's face it, wearing swimsuits next to colleagues, co-workers, or lil Timmy's Mom and Dad that you've only met from PTA meetings but are somehow mutual friends of someone else....can be off-putting. But that stops with you. The only thing that should make other people feel awkward at a pool party is this hat, or that time someone asked you where you got that beer, and you replied, "all things are given by He Who Walks Behind The Rows." (a joke very few people will get)

photo: Joshua Franzos


What I Wore:
Hat: Raffia hat from Amazon, here.
Sunnies: Ray-Ban aviators.
Bikini: Dokotoo from Amazon for $24.99, here
Bag: French market bag from Amazon, here.
Sandals: Gap from Thred-up. 
Bracelets: gifted Chanel, and vintage leather watch band.
Leopard and Gold Chain Scarf: un-labeled:( sourced on Thred-up.  
Beach/Pool Read: Philistines at the Hedgerow: Passion and Property in the Hamptons by Steven Gaines, here.

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

Note on this swimsuit: (I'm wearing a size medium for reference. I initially ordered a small. Overall, the swimsuit bottoms have a lot of butt coverage (more than I'm used to). The small bottoms fit, but were a little snug on my cheeks, cutting the meat of my hinder into quarters (not a flattering look) so I returned it and ordered the next size up. The medium bottoms were less "butt quartering," but still quartered a bit (an acceptable amount for $24.99 bikini) but then I thought the waist was slightly loose. This would probably be a perfect bikini option for a person with a "column body shape" - Long, lean people that don't have much curves or a waist. I really don't have much of a butt (working on my glute gains tho!) so I wonder if the butt quartering is what happens when you venture into granny bottom territory or if it is exclusive to this swimsuit. Can anyone relate? and sorry, no pics of ma butt.

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos


So, prime days. I was tempted by the instant pot, but I think I want to try this IPL (intense pulsed light) laser hair removal and photo rejuvenation device. As I get older, I seem to get more and more ingrown hairs which are leaving scars because my skin isn't rejuvenating as quickly anymore. Especially the old lady hairs I get on my chin. So annoying. This little device has the laser hair removal feature and a red light therapy attachment which helps minimize scars, sun damage, wrinkles, etc.

Are you a prime member? What deals are you getting today?









Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh, 














How to Rock Out a Swimsuit in The Hamptons, Part I

Thursday, July 11, 2019

mix tape, baywatch swimsuit
photo: Joshua Franzos
West Coast, Best Coast. Or at least that's what I say when I'm on the West Coast, but not because it is. I was born there. I have to say it. It's a vicious little earwig. Do you also get words and phrases stuck in your head like me? Then there's East Coast, Beast Coast (that's not actually something anyone says, but it's rattling around in my head now too.) I love the west coast and I love an east coast summer vacation on Long Island. Can I call myself bi-coastal, like the cool jet-set crowd? In reality, East and West Coasts are so different that they're really not even comparable. But as long as there's a coast involved, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Since this is a three part series on The Hamptons, let's start talking about the East Coast. I love it for its history, its old buildings, lighthouses, regional ways of cooking, and decorating, and doing.

For instance. Those cedar shingled beach homes that have turned grey from the salt in the air. Blue hydrangea blossoms the size of dessert plates and tall ornamental grass gardens that make the most delicious hiss and swish in the westerly winds. Produce is bought fresh from farm stands, sea food from fish mongers, everything is prepared at home and it's nothing fancy. Just simply and honestly prepared fare, the fresh ingredients speak for themselves.There are revolutionary war estates to tour, vineyards to stop at, salt marshes to explore from a stand-up paddle board. Heaven if you ask me.

This past January, after Meatball came home from a week's stay in the hospital we were drained. Josh and I wanted so badly to catch a break and make sure Meatball was healthy and happy. Which meant, let's do a summer vacation with the dogs this year. I tried to find an affordable airbnb home to rent in North Fork, like we normally would, but there just weren't any in our price range. The same thing happened last year. (What is going on NOFO?) I did however find some great airbnb options in The Hamptons (the southern fork of Long Island). I found a home that was near the Atlantic Ocean, had a pool, allowed dogs, and was chicly decorated. We'll get to explore The Hamptons! I said. Josh nodded wearily, so I booked it and we kept our heads buried in work until it was time to vacay all day.

We drove through the Hampton's once before. It was a day trip while we were staying in North Fork. I remember a ton of traffic and pretty much every fancy pants store you can find in Manhattan being there. A lot of conspicuous wealth. $2000 straw handbags instead of $10 straw hand bags. Blue Blood Old Money Nautical Prep on steroids. Everything is expensive. The median house sale in The Hamptons is $11.9 million. Fish tacos from a food truck are $17. Two small tacos. no sides. Just two verrry small tacos. $17.Traffic.Rose. Montauk Pearls. Lobster rolls. The Hamptons.

In my non-vacation life, I've been overturning, re-thinking, re-mixing my wardrobe lately. Trying to get to the core of what it is to be and look like me. In an older blog post, I mentioned "subversive prep" as a look I sometimes strive to achieve. All the striped french sailor shirts (I must have at least 6), my gold boat shoes, and Ralph Lauren button downs attest to it. I've also been adding some rock and roll leanings back into my daily attire to make it louche-r and more authentically me. I wanted this for my vacation wardrobe too. As far as vacation wardrobe planning went, I planned to either be: in or around the pool, drinking rose in or around the pool, stand-up paddle-boarding in the bay, feeling the violent waves of the ocean smash against my legs, or in the kitchen making food (probably) still in my swimsuit.Translation: Bringing all the swimsuits! and then some more.

rock and roll swimsuit
photo: Joshua Franzos
 
rock and roll pool float, Meryl Franzos
photo: Joshua Franzos

For my first swimsuit look, I decided to try a litte bit of East Coast, a little bit of West Coast.
I must ask you. Is there a swimsuit more West Coast than a Baywatch red one piece? I think not. How do we make it old school rock and roll? With a mix tape floatie of course. Back in the 90's, making Maxwell mix tapes with handwritten song lists was my love language. I kinda miss it. Now for the East Coast element. Yeah, what makes it East Coast? The glass of Wolfer Estate Rose 2018 I'm drinking. In a plastic wine glass of course. Pool Rules: NO GLASS BY THE POOL. NO RUNNING. NO POOPING IN THE...oops... excuse me, GTG I have some Dog mom doodies to attend to.

Photo: Joshua Franzos
Where'd it go?





What I wore:
Swimsuit: ASOS Design, on sale for $16 here.
Visor: $7.99 on Amazon, here.
Sunnies: Royal Girl, $16.99 on Amazon, here
Pool Floatie: Maxchill instead of Maxwell, get it? $45, here.
Poop Bags: Frisco, 900, +2 dispensers for $14, here








Your Bosom Friend from Pittsburgh,



To the Nth Power

Wednesday, June 12, 2019

photo: Joshua Franzos
It all started in December 2018, when I had just a couple more months of being thirty-eight. Let's call it a soft-opening for the official kick-off of weirdness that I knew would eventually unfurl when my age year once again ended in a nine.




photo: Joshua Franzos
People usually use the beginning of a new year to start afresh, but I couldn't wait until January. I was a mess. A shell of a human. A burnt out wreck about to be picked over by carrion birds. After two and a half years of supplemental hormones, invasive procedures, setting daily, hourly, minutely fertility intentions, hemorrhaging massive amounts of scratch for a fallopian pipe dream, ending a twenty-nine year toxic relationship with someone who'd convinced me that my infertility was my fault because of A,B,C, D things or better yet, because I must not want it badly enough....I called it quits on trying for a family. Had I continued flailing, trying to sate the quack whims of non-medically trained "healer," had I continued being further and deeper dismayed each time my body let me down each month... ropes of saliva would've started pooling on my chest while I slipped into catatonic insanity. Dear reader, rest assured, my mental portcullis slammed down and "panic room procedures" ensued to protect myself from spiraling my way into a padded cell.

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos
 
meryl franzos, mrs. franzos, disco queen, jumpsuit chic, how to style a jumpsuit
photo: Joshua Franzos

I needed to tuck all the female failure away into a mental oubliette, throw away the key, and find my way back to myself. Trouble was, I didn't know who that was anymore. I used to love Adderall, so I started up on that again. I used to love working out, so I started that again too. Medicated responsibility and a habit of physical activity were the bread crumbs I thought I'd dropped and could follow backwards. The path looked similar, but also different. For a fleeting moment, I thought I could be who I used to be, but that is impossible. Going backwards and chasing a previous version of yourself is like trying to catch your shadow. So I embraced the reptile evolving into a winged beast, rising out of the murky depths of a disgusting primordial stew. 
photo: Joshua Franzos
I started to lose weight, which was great because I'd been uncomfortable and perilously straining the fastenings of clothing for years. After a month of exercise, my clothes started fitting again without the threat of putting out someone's eye with a projectile button. Though I was still prone to random teary-eyed moments, I was also thrilled because I was regaining a semblance of autonomy over my own body again. Then one day in early February, I woke up and my back was shitty again. I moved around like a hunch-back centenarian. 
photo: Joshua Franzos
Operation Getting-my-groove-back came to a screeching halt and once again my body was back to betraying me. As pain often does when it is bad enough, it manifests itself spiritually, as well as physically and I was convinced God was on some tirade to prove to me that I was not in control of SHIT. God and I aren't really on speaking terms so I doubled down by waking up at 4:30-45am to go to the gym and very slowly plod on the treadmill to lessen my revert backwards into planet muffin top. If I couldn't go fast or hard, I had to make up for it bulk. Costco sized exercise, because I simply didn't have the bandwidth to lose all the ground I'd gained athletically. I committed to physical therapy. Doing physical therapy exercises and walking very gingerly on a treadmill doesn't account for much, calorically speaking, but it feels like it does when you're injured. The weight re-gain, slowed, but did not stop. I got back on a scale again and I could not bear to watch the needle go up. 

photo: Joshua Franzos
In the face of a caring for a dog with an auto immune disease, having to suddenly dye the roots of my hair every four weeks (because of the a fore mentioned stress of almost losing a sick dog), babysitting insurance and auto body shops after someone rear-ended me, after about six weeks of back and forth with the worst customer service ever, it turned out I was definitely getting screwed over for $190 for a lost ASOS package, my new work and writing schedule weren't co-existing any longer, I was still having bitter moments of mourning, my skin had became dull and wrinkled overnight... 

Thirty-nine flattened me into the pavement like an ACME anvil. 

I. Could. Not. 

2019 was supposed to be the year of me regaining control. I was in no mood for lessons from God. I think the rage I'm usually so good at keeping nice and tidy and contained like a bodily fluid, may have reached out of my nostril and yanked me up by the bootstraps. So on March 15, I squared my shoulders and began to watch what I ate. I started keeping a food diary with an phone app called Lose It! (Because that was what I was going to do if I hit rock bottom again.) Though it often pained me, it was also illuminating how many empty calories I consumed. Somewhere between the calorie restriction, walking on a treadmill for 2+ hours per day in addition to physical therapy and being completely BORED out of my gourd while doing so, my brain turned inward and began cannibalizing itself. It was like a post apocalyptic cage match in there, a battle to the death. I tried to read, but it was no use. My early morning gym walks became my ADHD bugout time, where I would frantically google the answers to the weaknesses and character flaws my brain kept pinpointing and pick-pick-picking at. 

photo: Joshua Franzos
photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos
Welcome to the Nth year.  "To the Nth Power" is a phrase used in mathematics to indicate that a number will be multiplied a certain amount of times by its own self. I just quoted math. GTFO. I'm not superstitious, but I have moments of superstition. Those years ending in a nine get me. They force my hand for all the make up #fomo of the decade I'm about to leave in the dust, and the setting myself up proper for the decade I'm about to burst into. At nineteen, I...don't remember. At 29, I'd only started to recognize the itch of shedding skin and most notably, ended my first marriage. Ten years later, I'm happily remarried, but feel the itch of loosened skin in regard to things outside my control, i.e. fertility. Instead of feeling sad, I'm choosing mad. Can't have a baby? FUCK IT. I'M GOING ON A ZIKA BENDER IN THE MOST ZIKA CONCENTRATED TROPICAL ISLAND ON THE PLANET. Instead of pale gummed optimism in the face of a never ending mind fuck, I'm choosing the exit. Can't stop getting your period? I'M NOT A FAILURE, I QUIT. Instead of powerless, I'm choosing powerful. Can't get pregnant? FUCK IT. IMA


via GIPHY


If you can't do anything to control the things you can't control, I feel like you should chip away at the things that you can. Idle hands do the devil's work as they say. This year I hope to document some things that are actively helping me move on, in case you have things, fertility or otherwise, you need to move on from and a distraction will help. They'll probably sound silly and little when set along side a big life decision, like an Archie Comic shelved next to Marcel Proust. But one of the best things about emerging on the other side of all this is my inability to care about what doesn't matter anymore. Especially what people think, though, I'd prefer you didn't see me as a broken, failure of a woman. Look! There goes Meryl, she couldn't have kids. Now she's a hunched over female version Ethan Fromme. (That would make me a little sad.) But of course when I say you, I really mean me, and my perception of myself. It still needs work. We're all works in progress though, aren't we? So in the spirit of the Nth power, keep at it. Because I will be. Everything begins and ends within yourself. Seek out your talents and what gives you joy. Embrace them. Embrace yourself. You are more than the sum of the thing you can't do. Multiply yourself by yourself until you can confidently paint yourself in the colors you want to be seen. Everything else will follow, and as one passerby said in the alley of our photo shoot, "Love your outfit, ya, disco queen sex bomb!" Yes, that series of words will do, for now. I'm that because I've painted myself that way. You saw what I wanted you to see.

photo: Joshua Franzos
What I Wore:
Jumpsuit: Dusty Daze, on sale now here.
PVC clutch: gifted BCBG.
Platforms: gifted past season Louis Vuitton.
Hoops: vintage.
Cuff: Vintage.
Sunnies: Amazon, here.


Your friend in Pittsburgh,







The Legend of Ombre Hombre

Wednesday, April 3, 2019

ombre fur coat, pixies band tee, Meryl Franzos
photo: Joshua Franzos

Happy Spring everyone! I love the spring and summer seasons, but as you will come to learn, I'm not much for traditional spring fashion tropes. It's such a do - goody fashion season. Even as a little girl, Easter-egg hued church dresses always felt like a sorbet colored sham and I wanted them removed from my body as quickly as possible.


via GIPHY

photo: Joshua Franzos

black and yellow, forsythia, Pittsburgh blogger
photo: Joshua Franzos

It's taken many moons, but I've finally accepted the fact that springtime pastels just aren't for me. I've slowly curated my wardrobe to suit my inner bad gal, and it is during the cool, occasionally warm, but not too warm months, where I can mix and match my fall and spring favorites and create some unlikely combos. Case in point, my east coast summer pants and my ombre fur jacket. I have to be honest with you, this week's look is in part inspired by the unmasked villains of the television series, "Scooby Doo, Where Are You!"




Scooby Doo villains were terrifying, intimidating monsters with names like "Ghost of Bigfoot," or the "Chocolate Technicolor Phantom," or "Fireball McPhan" before their identities and scruples were exposed by those dang, meddling kids. Once de-shrouded, they're weren't scary anymore with their big, dumb heads sticking out of a furry monster suit. They fell from legend back down to earth and became people again, people with an agenda that got the better of them. Scooby Doo never did a "Where Are They Now?" episode on the villains, but I hope a large number of them reconsidered their lives, paid the debts for their crimes, and eventually found a seamstress to re-purpose their furry monster costumes into chic furry jackets, cuz I'm seriously feeling that look because I'm apparently a villain myself.

 Let's back up a touch. Sometimes things are so ridiculous, it feels like we live in a Scooby Doo plot line.The Mueller report came out and President Trump has declared himself completely exonerated and White House spokeswoman Sara Huckabee Sanders is on record saying that anyone supporting the "Russian Collusion Witch Hunt" against Trump is guilty of treason - "which is punishable by death in this country." I may wear my feelings for Trump pretty graphically on my sleeve, and not understand the right's undying fealty to the incompetent blowhard, but if any president is suspected of anything illegal, I'd want an investigation. Trump isn't special in that regard. Funny world we live in these days where the checking and balancing that make our country what it is, is now an act of villainy. So if I were to be a Scooby Doo villain, my name would be Ombre Hombre and my agenda would be transparency, truth, and asking questions even when it's not popular to do so. Consider me unmasked. Here's my big dumb head sticking out of a monster suit. You know what they say about shoes fitting? It fits great.
 
photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

Original by Robert pin
photo: Joshua Franzos

nike air presto
photo: Joshua Franzos

ombre Chanel purse
photo: Joshua Franzos



What I Wore:
Ombre Coat: Barney's Original
T-shirt: Pixies band shirt, here.  
Pants: old Ann Taylor LOFT.
Sunnies: Sojos, here. Shoes: Nike Air Prestos (the best, most comfortable running shoes EVER), here.
Ombre Bag: Chanel.
Pin: Vintage Original by Robert enamel flower pin.



 


heart sunglasses, Meryl Franzos
photo: Joshua Franzos

Your bosom friend in Pittsburgh, 














Bridge Freezes Before Road

Sunday, March 17, 2019

photo: Joshua Franzos

David Attenborough voice over: "Here we see a rare glimpse of Meryl in a wintry habitat. Extraordinary!"

photo: Joshua Franzos
Name: Meryl Franzos
Species: Homo Sapiens
Class: Mammalia
Natural Habitat (November - March): Light hibernator.Warmth seeking. Going to gym before sun is up, moling in a sunless cubicle between the hours of 8:45am-5pm, then leaving work after sun is down only to go home, put on thick raglan socks and sweatpants, and mummify self in a fleece lined blanket until she retires at 10pm.
Symbiotic relationships: sharing body heat with Canis Lupus Familiaris friends and pair-bonded male Homo Sapien mate.
Winter pelage: (December - March) rumpled oxfords under sweaters with cardigan toppers. Taut dress slacks with long underwear lumps underneath. Dismal, unimaginative, and utilitarian weatherproof boots. Hats that make her look like a homeless. Suspendered snowboard pants have also been sighted as appropriate all day office attire. 
Pelage once external thermometers reach 40 degrees Fahrenheit: More artfully pulled together outfits but still drab looking gray layers of woolen and pleathery textures. 
Late spring/summer pelage: More observation needed once temperatures soar past 72 degrees Fahrenheit. Please check back for future developments. Perhaps something more colorful or even a patch of bare skin will emerge. 

photo; Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos


Cold, inclement weather was always a perfect excuse to stay inside and get a lot of writing done, but the universe conspires against my plans more often than I'd like. This winter has thrown a lot of curve balls my way, in fact, I kinda feel like the last person standing in a dodge ball game. The red rubber ball stressors, big and small, are raining hellfire on me all at once. The small rubber balls that I can talk about: ASOS can't seem to find one of my returns worth hundreds of dollars and they don't seem keen on believing me, great. A week and half ago, I was rear-ended while I was stopped at a traffic light. Sure property damage sucks, but I'm mostly mad about the bureaucratic insurance processes I was volunteered to babysit. My workload has been unrelenting since October...Tax season is here...We're still walking on eggshells with Meatball... But wait, there are BIG rubber balls too. My workplace moved at the end of December, just one mile farther away. I've kept an open mind, but after two months there is no denying that my new commute is eating into my mid-day writing time in a big, big, bad way. It is agonizing to be this far a long on my novel and incapable of moving faster than a glacier. Actually scratch that, I think glaciers are actually melting faster than I can edit at this point. My back problems have re-emerged, sending me to twice a week doctor's and physical therapy appointments. Physical therapy rehabilitation has replaced my intense daily BBG and cardio workouts, putting my fitness and weight loss goals on hold too. I get up earlier and earlier so I can hopefully walk on the treadmill enough that I don't gain all the weight back that I've lost over the last 12 weeks (it's still creeping back). In short, I'm just annoyed. Annoyed to be slipping backwards physically, annoyed at my lack of progress on my edit, and if a booger inside your nose is making a weird whistling noise everytime you breathe, I'm probably super annoyed at you too. Franz Kafka once said, "a non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity." So, think about that, but subtract two major outlets for stress relief, ruin my car, and liberally sprinkle in some annoying stuff like baco bits and... you get me. (show of jazz hands)  So even though it's above 40F degrees, and there isn't any snow on the roads, my bridge is frozen. I have to proceed, not full speed ahead, but gingerly, gingerly. (Meryl doesn't do gingerly.) Meryl wants to burn that icy bridge down.


Olivia Harris bag, stapled studded bag
photo: Joshua Franzos
photo: Joshua Franzos
photo: Joshua Franzos
I'm talking figuratively, of course. Having burnt a few figurative bridges in my time, makes me extra aware of the corner I could paint myself into (oooh mixing metaphors) if I continue to limit my paths of ingress and egress. But burning bridges is also a defiant act, a giant middle finger to whatever. Sometimes that is exactly what's needed. Sometimes you do need to stop someone from hurting you with an ultimatum that could end that relationship. And sometimes (probably more often than not), you're just hot under the collar and it's just a rash something you do when you feel stuck in your circumstances. I feel stuck on this icy bridge alright. My physical therapist has me doing "supine bridges" at least twelve minutes a day, but preferably 24, ironically my PT exercises are on this physical therapy app called, wait for it, "MedBRIDGE." So yeah, I have bridges on the mind and a lot of time to contemplate all the stuff I want to do but can't while I repeatedly thrust my hips at the ceiling and repeat Dylan McKay's quote like an caustic yoga mantra, "Let the bridges you burn light the way."

"Let." HIP THRUST. "The." HIP THRUST. "Bridges." HIP THRUST. "You." HIP THRUST. "Burn." HIP THRUST. "Light." HIP THRUST. "The." HIP THRUST. "Way." DOUBLE HIP THRUST.


photo: Joshua Franzos

Maybe that's my problem. I'm focusing on destruction. I don't think we often consider how difficult it literally is to burn a bridge though, and since most wooden bridges are going the way of the Dodo, bridges don't actually burn anymore. You gotta blow them up and it actually takes a lot of planning and teamwork. Ever watch the movie, The Bridge on the River Kwai"? I know you haven't. Don't lie. Here's the best scene out of the whole movie, here. We also have a bunch of bridges in Pittsburgh, many of which are crumbling pieces of infrastructure like the Greenfield bridge which was destroyed in 2015. It takes a lot of effort to destroy a bridge, but even more work and effort to rebuild one, as evidenced by the Greenfield Bridge which only re-opened in 2017, just shy of two years later. 

I meant to write about how my late winter outfits tend to take on Jedi like properties, cuz I wear all the grays and layer like a mofo, but the honest truth is I just haven't been feeling much like a jedi master lately. I feel like the dark side of the force is trying to break me. If you hear that I've gone to jail because I defenestrated someone whose nose was whistling, then you'll know the dark side has won. It's a constant battle to be a good person, but it helps knowing that fires from big explosions die out quickly and leave a big mess. I don't have time for it. I have promises to keep and many miles to go before I sleep. I think I'll some how harness my explosive energy and keep a small and controllable slow burn going in my soul. Afterall, as Stephen King so aptly put it, "Life is not a support system for art, it's the other way around."


photo: Joshua Franzos


What I Wore:
Scarf: vintage, obtained from NCJW's Designer Days.
Bag: vintage Olivia Harris staple stud bucket bag, obtained from NCJW's Designer Days. 
hooded sweater duster: past season H&M
sweater tunic: past season H&M
pleather moto pants: past season H&M
ankle boots: past season Dolce Vita.


photo: Joshua Franzos





Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh, 














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