Pleasures of the Damned

photo: Joshua Franzos

 

For the longest time, I couldn't tell you why the ice breaker question I dread the most is, "Tell me about yourself."

 

Under a stoic veneer is heart-racing panic. I shrink back into the liminal sidelines of anonymity. Who, me? I don't exist. I'm just a mutable enigma existing in the inbetween. Why would I think to define myself, when it's always been done for me?

 

 

My Grandmother is Japanese. My mother half. Me? As the apple is sliced, I should be 25%, but my DNA test insists that I'm 29%, and at least 1% Korean. 30% Asian in total, my genes were stacked in favor of my Asian ancestry and it shows on my face. White people have always stared. There was something about me they couldn't put their finger on, and their curiosity usually won out over their manners. "What are you?" As early as age six, I tried to explain, clumsily navigating the language of my identity with a first grade vocabulary. At first I was proud, then I grew to resent it when I wasn't Asian enough to call myself Asian with my Asian playmates, or when white people kept stumbling over the clues written on my face. Through their narrowed eyes, I knew. I didn't belong. From a distance I could pass as white, but under tough scrutiny, I didn't. "Oh, I thought you might be Mexican, or Italian, or Israeli, but you got some Jap in ya instead!" During my modeling years, I was often too ethnic for roles, or not ethnic enough. Too much or not enough, never "just right," like Goldilocks was rumored to say.

 

photo: Joshua Franzos

The year 2000 marked the first year the United States Census had a bi-racial check box. Before that I had to claim Asian or claim white, but certainly deny one part of my heritage. Different forms sometimes had an "other" check box. I often checked that because it was my only option. I was twenty years old in 2000, and by then, after years of not fitting into neat boxes and being constantly othered, the damage was already done. My race, my chameleon sense of style, even the values that might define my character were so fluid, I was practically water. Recently, I became agitated—but not surprised when I learned mixed race individuals often experience developmental delays in self identity. No wonder I've been farting around so long with fashion and how I could use it to help define myself. Funny how I chose a wordless language to try and communicate.

 

photo: Joshua Franzos

 In 2019 a friend showed me an art book called, Part Asian, 100% Hapa. It featured Kip Fulbeck's portraits of multiply ethnic people that were at least a little bit Asian, and they called themselves Hapa—which is a Hawaiian term meaning a person of mixed ethnic ancestry. These beautiful and oddly familiar faces were celebrating their unique mix and embracing Hapa-ness. Though the book was not meant for me (it was meant for the awesome Hapa children of another dear friend,) tears lined my lower eyelids that day. Finally, there was a term, a two syllable word for what I was instead of a rambling dynastic prologue. And, I had a tribe. Not to name drop, but I have a friend with an ardent infatuation with Keanu Reeves. As I watch pictures of him float by in her stories, one day I smacked my forehead and laughed. Keanu! Our most famous fellow Hapa tribesman! Why have I never noticed it before? Goddam.

 

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

I'm not implying that everything became hunky-dory overnight once I learned I was Hapa. In the wake of the Coronavirus pandemic, Asian hate crimes and racism are at an all time high, and I'm still doing a lot of soul searching on what defines me, if only accepting that I may be indefinable. But even as late as November 2020, I was filling out a form for a state permit when I was informed that I couldn't be bi-racial, or Asian. I could only check: black, white, or unknown. Every option available to me was a lie. Instead of letting the racist ass form define me, I decided once and for all that forms are stupid and while their intent might be to impose imaginary limits, I won't let them anymore. Cue Whitney Houston's Greatest Love of All. (I'm not crying, you're crying.)

“invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
don't swim in the same slough.
invent yourself and then reinvent yourself and
stay out of the clutches of mediocrity.

invent yourself and then reinvent yourself,
change your tone and shape so often that they can never categorize you.

reinvigorate yourself and
accept what is
but only on the terms that you have invented
and reinvented.

be self-taught.

and reinvent your life because you must;
it is your life and
its history
and the present
belong only to
you.”
― Charles Bukowski, The Pleasures of the Damned

photo: Joshua Franzos

 What I wore: 

Hat: Boater, Bon Clic, Bon Genre

T-Shirt: The Avantehermetico Etsy Shop Bukowski Pleasures of the Damned

Paper clip necklace: Universal Thread, Target

Sword necklace:Marla Studio Gladius Sword in Bronze, 18" chain

Sunglasses: old Ray-Ban (this link is the cheapest new version, I could find $160 vs. $211)

Bag: Vintage Carlos Falchi butterfly bag in black python, bought from The Real Real

Lace mini: Forever 21 c/o Thred-UP

Gold boat shoes: Sperry. Now a collector's item. They haven't been re-issued in some time. There are still some sizes available on the internet if you dig for them.

 

 

photo: Joshua Franzos

 

 

 

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

No Vacancy

 

Photo: Joshua Franzos

Thanks to a year of working from home, my once rigid daily schedule is toast. I have new, bad habits--getting up a whole two hours later than I was previously. I have some new, good habits--though, nothing comes to mind. Regardless, there are patterns and behaviors that will be hard to shake, if and when we get back to "normal." And strangely, the thought of returning to normal has been panic inducing for me. Do I like working from home? Or do I just hate commuting more? Slow work periods at home often meant hours of uninterrupted writing which provided the luxury of looking at both the forest and the trees of my novel. Truthfully, this deep dive would not have been possible without our collective sojourn into COVID-19 isolation. However, the reduced socialization and the general monotony of day-in-day-out sameness has not done good things to my mental health. It's hard to know what to root for anymore, but the knowledge that my days of poring over my edit would come to an end in September 2021 haunted me.  

I had to finish. If I couldn't cut the words and finish my novel during a pandemic, would I ever? I've been writing one book for nearly ten years. 

 

photo: Joshua Franzos

Failure not being an option, I jettisoned the stuff that ate time and my limited quarantine energy (this blog, instagram posturing). I swiveled my full creative beam into the cutting of 39,054 words, yet keeping the story's core intact, but also stronger and better. It was a tall order, but I did it. I finished in July, and it only took three years and seven months.

The first time I finished my novel, the first draft mind you, was September 23, 2016. I was so excited and proud, I popped a bottle of Dom Perignon. Now, I roll my eyes because it's gone through so many edits and versions since then, I truly don't know what number pass I'm on. It doesn't matter. If what I'm told about literary agents and publishers is true, and I'm fortunate enough to land one, there will be many more edits and passes on my manuscript in the future. It's never ending. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

Oh, and work informed us that October 2021 is the new tentative back-to-the-office date due to the continued viral spread of covid variants--also never-ending.

The point of all this is, for the first time in a long time, I'm not straddling the real world and a fictional world. As I look for an agent and busy myself with the administrative side of writing, my consciousness is popped up like a prairie dog on high alert. Anxious AF. Trying to prepare for winter and worst case scenarios. Worrying about catching Delta. Worried about accidentally spreading it. Checking my email every few minutes, hoping for responses from the umpteen agents I've queried. Each day that passes without a response, more cracks appear in my cuvee blend of hubris and optimism. The cracks widen and gape, and that's how The Fear gets in. 

I want to be anywhere but this perpetual state of unknown. 

Prevailing writer wisdom says to immediately start writing a new story. Or take a vacation. Anything, to get your mind out of the dark corners of your imagination. You know, the what-ifs and what-would-you-dos? The one niggling thought of the last literary agent on earth rejecting the book you'd spent ten years writing. What do you do with your life then? 

photo: Joshua Franzos

Even though it seems like we're frozen in a catch 22--Time marches on, beholden to no one. So, in an effort to delay another existential crisis and alleviate some chronic cabin fever, we booked a vacation, and pretended for a little while that we had ninety-nine problems, but aging and the creative process wasn't one.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Your Bosom friend in Pittsburgh,

What I wore:

Hat: Lack of Color

Sunnies: Gucci dupes

Dress: Zadig & Voltaire c/o The Real Real

Heels: Numero Ventuno

What I drank:

 Rosé: One Woman Wines

Bourbon: Angel's Envy

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Limericks, Love Letters, and Turning Forty

photo: Joshua Franzos

If you'd asked me when I was ten years old, what or where I'd be at by age forty, I'd probably have told you some pie in the sky dream, like, I'd be a big time fashion designer with a gorgeous model of a husband and three kids, and and we'd all wear white clothes and chase each other through the white sheets air drying in the sunshine at our country home -- or something that looks like domestic bliss in a 1980's laundry detergent commercial.

photo: Joshua Franzos

At age eighteen, some forward-thinking adult made us High School Seniors commit some words to paper. It was loosely along the lines of, Where do you see yourself at age 30? But we were told that we could write whatever we wanted, because only we would see what was written, the caveat being, we'd see it when we were thirty years old. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

In 2010, an email went out, reminding the class of '98 of this endeavor, and would we kindly send our current mailing addresses? Our documents had been sealed and stored for twelve years, and now they needed to be mailed to us.

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

I held the crisp envelope in my hands, noting the strangely familiar penmanship on the return address, my old home, written in my hurried, all caps (except for a few letters) print. By Jove. I couldn't even remember what I'd written, but I fully expected this time capsule to flood me with wunderkind wisdom and hammer me with blast from the past memories.

 Instead, I got this:

There once was a girl from Nantucket.

Who got a stupid homework assignment, so she said fuck it.

She did what school said, 

and after twelve years wasn't dead,

Then her old, saggy ass got mailed a poem that sucked it.

(By the way. Your thirty now and therefore can't be trusted. Ha HA)


My initial thoughts were thus: Come here you eighteen year old cockadoodie brat. 
Your grammar is poor and Charlton Heston is not a counter cultural icon. You wasted too much time on TV, computer games, and sleeping in until 1pm. You were emotionally gorked. You shirked responsibility. You had talent and potential, but contributed the very minimum because you had zero stamina for hard, uncomfortable, tedious work. As a result, you have very little to show for anything. Eat my whole ass.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Thinking of it now, I kind of wish I'd kept this letter from myself. But at the time I immediately crumpled it up and tossed it. I have enough mischief and juvenilia betwixt the diary covers of my misspent youth. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

sooooo. (buttons on your underwear)

As I wind down the eleven days I have left in my thirties, I find myself occupied with thoughts about letters written for the future.The kind that are so targeted and poignant in the moment they're read, that the music swells and all readers are reduced to tears because they're filled with love and truth bombs....and a flash of that shining verisimilitude of the beauty, agony, and brevity of life.

photo: Joshua Franzos

photo: Joshua Franzos

I'd hoped to be the kind of parent that would write one of those read-upon-my-death, time traveling sock-you-in-the-gut-with-love letters. Where I make some anecdotal observances about you as a toddler and as an adult, express my hopes and dreams for your future and the kind of person you'll be, and finally bequeath you with the task of returning an ancient, mystical necklace to its rightful owner. (Or something that would send you on a journey fraught with adventure and intrigue and romance.) I have no idea where this came from. But just after my father died when I was sixteen (going on seventeen) it was my heart's most ardent wish that a letter from him would fall out of leather bound book I pulled off a shelf, or would be delivered to me by a lawyer on a designated birthday like a Wes Anderson film. I would be enveloped in parental love and machinations from beyond the grave - perhaps exposing that naive and fatalistic wish that God was an actual heavenly father and I wasn't the master of my own destiny. It seems like it would be so much easier. Ahhh, but I never got any letters.  Dammit, those unrequited loves and wishes have inspired literature for millennia...the novel I'm writing (editing) is no different, as it is filled with those letters I never got, and so it will also have to be that love letter to the children I never had. But as to me still pining for those letters I never received, well...As I lean from the threshold of thirty-nine into the heathery glen of forty, wisdom and experience are showing me that I am responsible for obtaining what I want. That's on me and no one else.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Without further adieu, here's a love letter to myself for when I turn fifty. 

There once was a woman in Pittsburgh,

who drank like she lived in a vineyard,

she loved with all her might,

and her looks, they put up a good fight, 

but it was her writing for which she would be remembered.

My Dearest Meryl Aja,

You've grown so much since you were a bold and adventurous toddler, and a frightened and anxious teenager. Where you used to be afraid of showing any sign of weakness, you've pushed past that.While it's true, that a few have taken advantage when you showed a vulnerable side, you've found they were an exception to the rule.You've found more comfort and friendships because of your openness than anything else, so you should continue with it. You're starting to learn about boundaries. Keep leaning into that.

You're getting antsy about looking as old as you feel. Right now you feel like you're fifteen years old in the head -- Just some dumb kid that finally figured out what she wants in life. Is that still true? It's pretty difficult looking like you're fifteen right now, if not impossible. You don't really want to look fifteen, you just want it to stop. Though, it won't. It's possible you're still fighting the good fight in maintaining a youthful appearance, you might have taken some drastic measures, or you may be aging more gracefully than a French woman, because you don't smoke, Great Job on that by the way! Whatever you do, always do it for you, and Always Always Always do your research.

I'm so happy you and writing found each other. You came to it with late, but boy have you learned by doing. I don't think you've stuck with anything as long as this, so it really must keep your interest and be special. Please, never tire of it, and keep doing it. It gives so much meaning to your life because you don't process emotions like normal people. When you write, you get so much more clarity for yourself, and then for your loved ones. You're a ways off from publishing at the moment, but when it's time to look for a publisher, don't let rejection derail you from doing something that makes you whole. Keep doing it. Writing is your salvation.

I'm so ecstatic that you found  true love in Joshua. The push and pull of your relationship constantly takes your breath away, keeps things spicy (and you on your toes), floods your being with so much joy and gratitude that you sometimes find yourself weeping happy tears in the shower.You inspire each other aesthetically and to be better people. It is a union you didn't think possible, but you have it. You have no idea how many people walk around looking for what your father in law called "that special kind of sauce" and never find it. But you did. Never stop showing your love and appreciation to that gorgeous man of yours.

And Honey, if there's one sentence I want you to walk away with from all this, it's this:

 I believe in you.

What I wore: 

Sunnies: fake wayfarers, Amazon here.

Trench: Old, Yohji Yamamoto, worn previously here.

Shirt:  from Thred-up.

Denim skirt: Levi's, sourced from Thred-up.

Tights: Amazon here.

Shoes: Nike Vandalized LX, try here.

Quilted patent leather bag: Christian Dior

photo: Joshua Franzos

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Seasonal Change Denier

photo: Joshua Franzos

As soon as the calendar flips up to September, I plug my fingers in my ears, pinch my eyes shut, and yell LA LA LA LA LA at the top of my lungs. I don't want to hear, think, or acknowledge that summer is over, not even when it's officially over when the autumnal equinox lands in our laps (September 23). NOPE NOPE NOPE. It's still 86 degrees, NOPE.

Even though I don't hate fall: changing leaves, fall fashion, and steamy crock pot goodness do make it quite tolerable after all. However, the sheer busyness of the season makes it harder to live in the moment which makes it just a steep, slippery ski slope into the miser's purse of winter. Therefore I must be dragged, kicking, and screaming from summer every year. It is tradition. You got your pumpkin spice, I throw summer time and livin's easy tantrums.

This year, however, as the mornings grow darker, clouds of my breath grow visible, and my 5am walks to the gym start requiring a jacket...I've found myself wondering how my big spring and summer personal style renaissance and subsequent closet overhaul will evolve into the cooler, wetter seasons. So I guess in some way that makes me kind of excited for Fall...for the first time ever.

Oh snap.

We never discussed my personal style renaissance on here did we? *begins sucking teeth.* I wasn't gonna go there today, but ok. Yeah...I guess that needs to be spilled.

photo: Joshua Franzos

Um. It was February. I was trying to lose some weight for my physical and mental health, and it was going well until I injured my lower back when I tried to do some box jumps. Evil explosive movements! So I returned to physical therapy and did a lot of slow cardio on the treadmill. It was stupid slow at first. 1 1/2 hours of slow walking will drive you bonkers unless you entertain yourself, so I started doing a lot of busy work on myself. A couple years ago, I'd flirted with understanding what my personal style was, but that got put on the back burner. So, with phone in hand and the treadmill speed set to a zippy 2.0,  I fell down that rabbit hole.

photo: Joshua Franzos

One of my Pittsburgh blog pals, Sarah (@sawissinger) of the Surznick Common Room wrote this really great post on fashion industry waste and introduced me to the online second hand store thredUP in 2018, but I did not check it out until ASOS royally screwed me on a lost package this February/March. I talked in circles with ASOS's customer service and I'm not convinced I ever "spoke" to a human. There is no hotline option, only chat and email. I did a lot of business with ASOS over the years and they would not give me, a valued customer, credit for the lost package. So. Like a scorned lover, I started researching other fashion forward companies that might appreciate my business more. I unfortunately couldn't find very many retailers in my style with affordable prices and good customer service policies. So I turned my eyes to thredUP.

photo: Joshua Franzos

I used to love vintage and second hand shopping. But when I started my closet overhauling a couple years ago, I found that vintage shopping or thrifting weren't good for my closet. 
I used to go to Goodwill and spend hours sorting through stuff until I found a "treasure." Then I'd buy it, whether I needed it or not, whether it went with anything I already owned or not. Finding a cheap "treasure" in a sea of cast-offs fired off some pleasurable dopamine process in my brain but it also came down to me buying the "treasure" simply because of the time I'd invested in looking for it. Stupid, right? Once I realized this and how badly it cluttered my closet and muddied my personal style, I stopped thrifting.ThredUP is second hand clothing, but it's online (and a convenient app) so you can search for things you are looking for/need, instead of searching endlessly through racks only to find a tepidly cool thing you don't need.

photo: Joshua Franzos

I approached thredUP convinced I only needed a handful of tops to zhuzh up my work wardrobe, but I was extremely wary about finding myself back in Closet Clutterville. I really tapped into the filters on thredUP to help me limit my endless wading. I really liked that I could search for clothing by color or material on thredUP, because I have this new-ish policy. I'm seriously limiting my Dry Clean Only clothing purchases, and nothing I buy will be rayon, modal, viscose (et all Rayon aliases) anymore because I cannot stand it when I shrink clothing, and Rayon ALWAYS shrinks. whhhhyyy. I'm also limiting my color palette so more things can be worn with each other. However, being spoiled with free shipping and returns on ASOS, I was not thrilled with thredUP's $1.99 re-stocking fees, so I also downloaded a closet app, used screenshots of any prospective online purchases and things similar to articles of clothing I already own and love, and played around creating outfits for hours (maybe even days at this point) while I was on the treadmill. You know, to make sure whatever I was interested in buying off of thredUp worked with what I already owned. The closet app consumed me like the most thrilling game. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

At first I downloaded the ClosetSpace app, (don't download this, I'll explain later). This app was so user friendly and really made me think about outfits in a weather context. Hot-Warm-Mild-Cool-Frigid and Dry-Rainy-Snowy. I quickly discovered the closet MVPs and the gaping holes. For instance, I learned that I had 35 pairs of shoes, but only one pair of shoes that I'd wear in the rain, which drastically limited my outfit choices. I grew so fascinated by the closet app and what it showed me, that I created a digital facsimile of everything in my possession, just so I could see how it all played (and if it played), or, if I didn't want to take the trouble to upload something into the app (that meant it should be donated.) I added things I was considering buying to see if I should buy it. I began asking myself so many questions whenever I had a tickle to own something cool that I saw, but mostly it always came down to these two questions: Does it go with anything I currently own? How many other ways can this be worn? -- I wanted everything in my closet to be loved and used and in circulation. Turns out I needed to "zhuhz" a lot more than I thought, alot more than a handful of new tops anyway. I also needed to get rid of the stuff that didn't work with much and buy more shoes that could be worn in the rain. Once I started posting my daily outfits on my Instagram stories, in part to share, but also in part to keep me accountable to this personal style project, I became hooked. Not only did I get great feedback on Instagram and from my  real life friends, acquaintances, colleagues (and certainly my husband), but I could also see myself beginning to grasp a unique personal style through this documentation process. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

Then the unthinkable happened. The ClosetSpace app stoppped working. It had become my daily ritual on the treadmill, to create or re-work outfits for the variety of weather Pittsburgh was throwing at us. I reached out to the app makers for support and heard nothing. I could see outfits I'd already created, but I couldn't make any more. And I needed to make so many more. I could not do it without this app. The thought of living without it brought me to tears. So I did the unthinkable. I bought The StyleBook app (another closet app) and re-created my digital closet ALL OVER AGAIN. 

photo: Joshua Franzos

As if it wasn't enough to do it once. Ugh. you guys. I was some kind of combination of crazy, motivated, and bored on that treadmill. I have to say there was more of a learning curve with Stylebook, but I basically kept the same weather centric outfit categories that helped me so much from the other app (the app that betrayed me). So in summation, getting dressed in the morning is a breeze, I haven't re-worn the same outfit twice all spring, summer, and now...fall...goddammit. I'm also happy to report that I've walked myself fit, walked myself recovered from my back injuries, and I daresay walked myself into a much more stylish me. The most unbelievable result out of all of this is I don't feel the need or desire to shop. I'm happy and content with my closet and myself right now. It's such a weird feeling that I've never before experienced. I hope it lasts as the weather changes, but if it doesn't, I know I'll be stopping at thredUP first. Thursday was the last 90 degree day we'll have in Pittsburgh for awhile. It's finally cooling off. Now please excuse me while I go throw a temper tantrum. It's tradition after all. 

 What I Wore: 

Hat: Jack & Lucy (defunct brand) bought on thredUP

Whiskey Muscle shirt: Express, old sorry!

Jeans: Citizens of Humanity, via thredUP

Platform sandals: Gap, via thredUP

Bag: vintage Carlos Falchi via The RealReal

Cuff bracelet: Chanel, gift from my sister-in-law

Sunnies: Chanel, "half-tint" as made famous by the Olsen twins. Scored on eBay for a bargain.

P.S. Here's a link to a personal style interview I did with Christina Imberlina, of Style by Christina.

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,

 

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

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

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, 

Follow my blog with Bloglovin