Lust For Life

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

It's a good thing I wasn't born a guy. I'm pretty sure I would've been that shirtless, drug-addicted, lead singer that only wore leather pants and rolled around on stage in broken glass and vomit. Think Jim Morrison and Iggy Pop. Kidding.

 Sort of. 

I've always been able to visualize my life going down some pretty grim paths in connection with my creativity because that's how creatives are depicted in film and literature. I  thought it was inevitable. Having had bouts with depression, I've always felt a connection with historically tortured artists, writers and musicians. I saw myself in their stories, could see my potential future down their uncomfortable life paths. This is called empathy. Sure, empathy is great for telling stories and writing fiction (and being a decent human being), but sometimes the depths of my empathy makes me squirm in my seat. I mean, I can't even watch people be awful at Karaoke, I feel their embarrassment, plus my own and I just can't. After watching any rock n' roll biopic, I think, Yeah, I totally could've fallen down the heroin abyss and ruined everything for myself. Totally could've happened to me. Mr. Franzos and pretty much any close friend I voice my dark empathy concerns to, rolls their eyes at me. "Nuh uh," they say,"..you're too much of a survivor." 
Okay. So they definitely have a better opinion of me than I have of myself, but they're probably right. I've had some dark moments in my life, but they've only made me appreciate this finite resource even more...far too much to ever waste it at this point.

 The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.

I think we're all born with the feeling that we have some greater purpose, or have the feeling that something unknown is bubbling up inside of us to share with the world. At least, I hope everyone has that feeling. I often follow Mr. Franzos around for his photography and film-making work. My chest swells with happiness and pride that he's one of the lucky few that have made a life out of hard work and creativity. I'm glazing over the trials and tribulations of being self-employed, of course, but the grass is always greener on the other side, isn't it? I, myself, have an administrative day job (for a very fair and understanding employer). So after I punch the day job clock, I punch the creative clock as much as I can physically muster. As I mentioned in my last post, I feel the pressure of time constantly. My parents died young, you see, and if that's any predictor on when I punch out of this world, that would mean I only have 15 years or so. It seems unfair, since I just found the love of my life and my gift that I want to give away as my life's purpose.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

But there I go, talking about death again when I really wanted to talk about the creative and rock and roll lifestyle. Minus the downward drug spirals, it's a good life and never boring. So I thought I 'd give some guide lines I've developed for myself on how to look and act the part without asphyxiating on your own vomit. 

1. Push your art to the limits, not your vices.
2. Party hard, but work harder.
3. It's not about you, it's about getting to do your art.
4. People seldom remember what you say, but they do remember how you made them feel.
5. Exercise your demons into submission.

6. Have friends that celebrate your triumphs and point out when you're being a twat.
7. Good-natured mischief, because it keeps you and those around you, young.
9. Road trip to connect you with the beautiful land and its people.

10. Wear tight, shiny pants.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

What I wore: 

Top: Freeli. Purchased locally at Issue.

Waxed moto jeans: Habitual

Boots: Sam Edelman

Bag: Shades of Silence, here. 
Cuff: Chanel, gift.

Tell me, what are your guidelines for being a rock star in your own life?

Your bosom friend in Pittsburgh,

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Fear and Clothing in Erie, Pennsylvania

 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

Mr. Franzos and I stepped away from it all for a quick, one-day, summer vacation in Erie, Pennsylvania, and it was, well, eerie. Erie is a summertime destination city perfectly situated on one of the Great Lakes with shoppes, restaurants and amusement parks... but when we got there Erie was closed for the season and shuttered. Unbeknownst to us, summer was over. The End. Fin.

How could it possibly be fall? I thought, It's still warm out.

We stood in the amusement park overflow parking lot, stared at the frozen roller coasters and listened like deranged children, for all the sounds that weren't there. We strained our ears for the crunch of an elephant ear, the trilling voices of children high on cotton candy, the pained shrieks caused by some wise guy slapping someone's lobster red sunburn.

Silence.

It was like a giant void had opened up where the happiest place on Erie used to be and piped in the painful sound of nothing. But it wasn't just the amusement parks, the sound of nothing was everywhere. Even the waves on Presque Isle State Park didn't have the audacity to crash upon the sandy shores, they merely rolled up, silent as you please, like a drop of oil in a warm frying pan. 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

We checked into a third generation roadside motel, the kind where you park in front of your room (my favorite). It had cable television and an outdoor swimming pool, but the pool was tarped over and the gate pad-locked. The Closed for the Season sign was crooked on the chain link fence. The only sound in the entire city seemed to come from the motel room next to us. The TV was on full blare. A Twilight Zone marathon was on. We could hear each throaty, male cough coming through the thin walls. We called the front desk to complain. 

"Oh, that'd be Allen. He's what you'd call a feeble mind. His mom had to stow him here for a few days while she takes care of something...He's hard of hearing, Allen...sorry about that. I'll put you in a room on the other side of the horseshoe..." the front desk attendant apologized. 

Mr. Franzos and I cast side-long glances at each other, but we were quickly accommodated and our new room proved to be just as silent as the rest of Erie.

Now, a normal person would say, "This place gives me the heeby jeebies...Let's leave!" 

Not me. Not Mr. Franzos. We scrambled to get ourselves and our photography equipment together to document as much of the shuttered city as we could before sun down.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

I find beauty in decay and the slick, downward slope towards obsolescence. It's a universally relatable experience, this race against time and nature. So naturally, I'm obsessed with all abandoned landscapes, ghost towns and ruins. They remind me of the monstrous landscapes I occasionally see in a recurring fever dream I've had since I was four. I started dreaming of abandoned industrial plants when I was a flu-ridden toddler living in Northern California, which is weird because my fever dreams always looked a lot like the rusting steel mills of Pittsburgh. Sometimes I wonder if that means I'll meet my demise here in Pennsylvania, but then I remember that I don't believe in predetermination, which might be why I always hurtle myself towards the very things that scare me. I pick at things. Test boundaries. Get underneath them. Wrap my mind around them. Conquer them by understanding them. 


About a year ago, I had a nightmare. Usually nightmares are pretty straight forward and easy to figure out. This wasn't one of those nightmares. In this dream, I was tasked with giving someone else a bunch of used, infant mattresses and much to my surprise, they didn't want them. But, I was told they would want these mattresses, so why didn't they want them? It wasn't that they didn't want them, so much as they couldn't take them right this very second. I glanced down at the stack of baby mattresses, wondering what I was supposed to do with them until they decided they wanted them. As I looked at the blue and white ticking fabric covering the mattress, the seams start splitting. Hundreds of dirty, severed hands burst out and attacked me, tried to get in my mouth. Meanwhile long, black hair spilled out the sides of the mattress and tried pulling me into the darkness within. I snapped awake, gasping for air and said, "Whoa. That was cool." Two weeks later I bought a black hair purse. 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

I believe in symbolism and it is rampant through out my writing. Sometimes intended and sometimes a completely subconscious happenstance that I only notice when I go back through and edit. I think it's a fun thing to weave in, but as I grow more and more aware of it, I fear my subconscious does as well. My dreaming mind really threw me for a loop. Black hair? Infant mattresses covered in blue-ticking fabric? Animated severed hands?  I scratched my head over this dream for months.The psuedo psychoanalyst in me wonders if this wasn't two portions of my brain, the ambitious writer and the biological clock, having a candid conversation about procreation and this next year. You see, I've decided that I need a year to get my affairs in order before, well, you know. The biological clock doesn't like it, and the writer feels rushed. Neither of them are happy with my decision and I feel them at war inside me, all. the. time. 

The biological clock obviously wants a chance at a family, to leave a genetic legacy if all other attempts at a legacy fail. Maybe my kid will be the one that can do some good, make a difference in the world where I could not-- at least, I believe that is the boiled down rationale behind having children.

The ambitious writer wants to finish the first draft of my novel and sail to Sicily and see the Catacombe dei Cappuccini first. Kids will only get in the way at this point, and it is my understanding that you pretty much have to shelve everything you want to accomplish for about 18 years. The ambitious writer is very susceptible to outside pressure, especially from seemingly arbitrary deadlines suggested by the Biological clock (and pretty much any physician out there). So I booked the trip, now I just need to finish the book.The ambitious writer balks at a year deadline. Is it enough time???
 
The biological clock is completely pessimistic and wonders if the hope for procreation will be up before I even start researching what luteal phases are. I'm told that 35 is a slippery slope into genetic obsolescence. The biological clock also wonders if I'm successful at producing an heir, if the "past expiration date" on my eggs will result in me being the kind of mother that drops off my "feeble-minded" son at a roadside motel in Erie. 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

Evil clowns and demon possession seem so much more, appetizing than the harsh realities of being a 35 year old woman. Anyway, it's that time of year where we openly and willingly explore the things that scare us. Christian and pagan rituals summon them out into the open to ward off other evil spirits. So let it be known, I have summoned thee, fear. Now get thee behind me Satan. Riddikulus!

For now, I just want to finish breathing life into my story until it's a wriggling pink newborn book baby in my arms. I just hope by next October I won't be finally ready for summer only to find that its Closed for the Season, forever. 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

What I Wore: 

Top: Mas Nada

Skirt: past season Mossimo

Fringe Belt: Elie Tahari

Boots: Sam Edelman

Purse: Shades of Silence

Your Bosom Friend from Pittsburgh,

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What Do Writers Wear?

 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

I casually pondered from time to time, what do writers wear? But it never resulted in me pulling my phone out of my back pocket to google it, until today.

Many months ago, I watched a documentary about J.D. Salinger, the recluse author of The Catcher in the Rye. I actually hit "rewind" on the film when an ex-lover talked about him suiting up each day in a gray canvas jumpsuit, his uniform for writing. Yes, Salinger donned a jumpsuit each day and closed himself off from the world in a concrete bunker and wrote. People were not welcome in there. One part of my brain cried, "That's sooo weird!" The other part of my writer brain said, "Oh yeah...That makes perfect sense." Writing is dirty, thankless work and most people simply do not get how long it can take. Nor do they understand the silence and seclusion you need in order to create fictional worlds. People think writers are day-dreamers. It would seem so as we half-stare at our screens, half gaze upon the worlds we're building like a chess player thinks, three moves ahead. The next moves and motives of our characters hang tenuously in the air, becoming more and more concrete in our minds and our fingers hang over the keys, ready to strike. That is, until someone shatters the glass menagerie with one lascivious crunch into a celery stick. So, I get the hard labor uniform, just as I get closing yourself off from the world in a concrete bunker. 
"It sounds like a vacation," says my writer brain. 
"Yeah," quips the normal half of my brain, "for a serial killer."

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

So, Salinger was a little extreme and judging from the documentary, may not have had the best work/life balance. But what about the others? I pulled the phone out of my back pocket and googled: "Writer's uniforms" and "what do writer's wear?" I pulled up some old blog posts, a few buzz feed type "lists," and this awesome wikihow article, that I don't think was written in satire, but has me seriously laughing like it was. Hollywood portrays present day writers as slobs. Maybe. I, unfortunately, do not know many writers, so I can only speak for myself. I mostly write during my lunch periods M-F, so I wear whatever I wore to work...usually a funky oxford shirt, a cardigan, and pants. I felt that I had to say pants, because I learned that John Cheever wrote mostly in his tighty whiteys. (He claims he only had one suit at the time and didn't want to get it wrinkled). I find good cheer and company in knowing these quirky little things. Though I don't wear anything too outlandish (or not wear anything), I like knowing that I'm not the only ocd weirdo writer out there. I have my rituals, patterns and superstitions that set off Pavlovian-like responses that signal to my brain, it's time to get busy and write.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

But writers as slobs...while I may not wear my pajamas when I write, (I say this without judgement, by all means, do whatever you need to do in order to get those beautiful words onto the page!) but my oxford shirts are definitely a little rumply from sitting in the laundry basket, not getting ironed by me. I also tend to choose colors these days that work with the omnipresence of little white dog hairs. I also wear holes through my elbows quicker than you can say M. Night Shayamalan. I either have a hole in my elbow or I've patched it. Either way, I usually look like a character from a Dicken's novel in great shoes.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

This outfit is a weekend writing/get work done look.  This past weekend was a productive weekend for us. I got a little writing done, but mostly because I had two days off from work for Rosh Hashanah. Weekend writing time has mostly been AWOL since May when we started moving and renovating. But besides that, I also got some IKEA furniture built. Mr. Franzos and I got tile for our kitchen backsplash picked out and ordered. Ditto on the tile for fireplaces. We went for a nice, long urban walk, and we also broke in our newly remodeled kitchen for the first time. Home cooking is the best. Our home is finally really coming together, though we aren't done with the weekend projects quite yet. As a result, when I do write these days it's almost always done outside the home where there are fewer distractions.

What do you wear when you write? 

What I wore:

Sunglasses: Ray Ban

Cardigan: vintage Bergdorf Goodman cashmere.

Top: past season, J. Crew

Jeans: H & M, here.

Shoes: last year's tired slip-ons

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,

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Just Show Up

Last week, I found myself in front of a blank page and an expectant, blinking cursor and I kind of panicked. In the two years that I've been working on my novel, I've never experienced the dreaded writer's block. For the last eight months, I've been editing 300 pages of previously written work. I had to stop charging full speed ahead and fix things. Some writing happens during the editing process, but it's mostly exhausting decision making. Cutting. Re-working. Placing things sooner. Placing things later. It was necessary and painful, but the foundation of my entire story is shored up, strong and ready to take on more weight. Ready, go. Start writing again Meryl. Go. Time's a wasting. Go. GO NOW. After months and months of editing, the blank page felt alien to me. Either my imagination muscles had atrophied or I was putting too much pressure on myself. Regardless, I ended up wasting that entire writing lunch on social media. 

My high school track coach, "Coach T," shouted cliche sport sayings at us during our tempo workouts: "Pain is weakness leaving the body!", "Running is 10% physical, 90% mental!", "Just do it!" -- are just a few that come to mind. He wasn't a creative man, Coach T, but for many of us, the first inklings of "hard work = results" started forming inside our hormone addled brains because of his distilled directness.
 

For the past year, I've gotten into a groove and I've been exercising 4-5 days a week. First thing in the morning. Very early. And I do it for three immediate reasons: 1. the high-water pressure shower I get to take immediately after. 2. the 30 minutes to 1 hour of writing I get done at a coffee shop after that, and 3. and perhaps the most important of all, exercise quiets the voices in my head.

Yes, I hear voices. I know you won't judge me, because something tells me you might too.

They're awful and critical. Hateful. Voices made of pure self-loathing. They prey on your weak moments and latch onto your insecurities. They say things like:

"Why do you even bother? You keep gaining weight, even though you work out all the time."
"Nobody takes your writing seriously."
"You're never going to finish the novel, like you never finish anything in your life."
"Even if you do manage to finish it, no agent or publisher will touch your P.O.S manuscript with a ten foot pole."
"You're going to die a secretary who impacted no one and nothing."

Yikes, right? And that's just the tip of the iceberg! I know my demons well, but whatever yours might be, if left unchecked, these voices will slowly drive you insane as you sit day after day in a tan cubicle, until you find yourself uncontrollably crying on the toliet in the women's bathroom stall. If you're in the market to avoid that, I recommend exercise.

Mr. Franzos and I moved to a new neighborhood recently. Life has been in a constant state of flux and the voices have been gaining some ground again, so I joined a new gym that's just three blocks away from our doorstep. I'm trying to find the same workout-shower-coffee-write-go to work routine that I had in our old neighborhood because I know that worked for me. But new gyms, have new procedures. 
I was asked to list some goals on my intake contract. I bristle at goals. I don't like to overpromise or overcommit, probably due to my crippling fear of failure. I considered putting "to write a novel," or "to see this creepy Capuchin crypt in Palermo, Sicily," and "to quiet the voices in my head." But I decided, perhaps wisely, to put, "to be strong and healthy" instead. A nice generic, non-committal goal full of legal loop-holes.

"Gosh, I wish more women said, 'to be strong' instead of 'to be skinny' on their intake form."

I looked at the trainer, there is some suppressed neurotic part of me that wanted that, but I kept my mouth shut. I was weighed next. My weight was higher than my wedding day, but I seriously cannot worry about stupid things like weight when I have a book to finish and I'm freaking out at a blank page half-way through it all.
"Is that about right? Is it high? Low?" asked the trainer. 
I shrugged, I don't even know what box our scale is packed in right now, "The last time I noted my weight was at the doctor's office, two months ago. I was two pounds less then. Before that, I can't remember the last time I weighed myself."
"Most of the women that come in here weigh themselves several times a day."
I nodded and said, "Yeah, I've been there." I have definitely been down that stretch of road. When I look back on it now, it makes me tired. And bored. Then I began wondering if I'd really only traded one neurosis for another. When I'm on the elliptical I'm not reading Self magazine and wishing I had the fitness model's thighs anymore, I'm reading the fiction in The New Yorker and listening to Die Antwoord to block out the gym grunters, the gym phlegmers. If I'm running or lifting weights, I'm listening to writing podcasts and wearing out the demon rugrats in my head until it's their naptime. Basically, I've got writing on the mind all the time. I much prefer that over counting calories and wrapping body parts with measuring tape.
Then the trainer pulled the body fat tester out. I had my body fat tested when I was 17, and one would think at my physical prime. I got 24% back then, so this was definitely going to hurt. I grabbed the metal hand grips and grit my teeth. Sex: Female. Age: 35: Height: 5'7" Diet: Eating bar food every single night for the past three months. I braced for the moment of impact, the moment of truth.

"Wow. You have 16.3% body fat...that's like, athlete level. Good job!"

I opened one eye, "What?"

Athlete level.

ME.



The rest of the gym visit, I didn't quite know what to do with that percentage while I did push-ups and held planks to test my strength, but I was suddenly faced with the reality that even though I hate cardio and have to distract myself into oblivion, I'd some how stumbled into the fairy glen of athleticism. I had in fact, already become strong and healthy. Not at all skinny, but lean. When I got home I googled some technical fitness stuff and determined that the percentage means I carry around roughly 21lbs of fat and 107.9lbs of sheer, crazy muscle...or something like that. Instead of wanting to occupy the least amount of space possible and reduce the grand total, as women are taught to want from a young age, I began to think, maybe my muscle could weigh more? Maybe it could take on the density of a neutron star? But the question remained, How did I get here? I started to follow the breadcrumbs backwards. How did I walk through the wardrobe and find myself in athletic Narnia? I mean, when it comes to the gym, I just show up and get it over with so I can work and write without the nagging voices of self doubt clawing at my coattails. 

My first and hopefully, last gym selfie. I'm cranking the "Helping Writers Become Authors" podcast. 

I've been thinking about Coach T a lot lately. I seem to remember sitting on the asbestos tiled gym floor of Daisy Brook Elementary School with my fellow track mates. It was early spring in Michigan, and there was still too much snow on the high school track for workouts. I was a sophomore and scared. All of us were getting yelled at for the few freshman that had cut practice the day before. Coach T made it really simple, "show up for practice."

Flash forward to my next day of writer's block at the library. My laptop was open, the battery back-up was plugged in, and my knuckles were thoroughly cracked. There it was again, the blank page. My chest started getting tight, but then I thought of running on the black rubber track and Coach T flapping his clipboard at us from center field, bellowing,"...90% mental, 10% physicaaaalllll!!!" I was over-thinking things, as usual, and I knew what I needed to do. I just needed to show up. I showed up at the page and I just went through the physical motions of typing. I wrote guttural nonsense until the engine in my head turned over and started spitting out complete sentences onto the page. Then those complete sentences turned into paragraphs and then dialogue and then more paragraphs and, the next time I looked up at the Carnegie Library's clock, I was going to be late heading back to work.  

Seriously, don't wait for inspiration. You'll figure it out. Just show up. 

Good things happen when you show up...Case in point, thanks to this blog, I was invited to attend the VIP grand opening for Chelsea Collective, a new, women's fitness boutique that aims to fuse fitness and fashion. It's an exciting new retail proto-type and brainchild of the Dick's Sporting Good company. I rsvp'd and took my good friend Amy as my date. 

photo credit: Kim Ifft Photography

We mingled, drank white wine and ate healthy and delicious hors d'oeuvres, tasted the yogurt bar, and ran into our friend, WHIRL magazine style editor, Liz Petoniak. Amy caught up with an old college chum and I checked out the wares. I picked out a super cool Nike hooded vest to use my complimentary $25 gift card on.

Iphone photo credit: Amy Cohen

 Chelsea Collective carries labels I've heard of: Nike, Hunter, Splendid, Vans, New Balance, Adidas, Asics, Brooks, Birkenstock, Saucony, Sorel and Under Armor. They also carry brands I've never heard of: Alternative, Calia by Carrie Underwood, Lorna Jane, Spiritual Gangster, Zobna, Sanuk, Onzie and Alala. The staff was warm and friendly, the store was clean and inviting, the schwag give-aways...jaw-dropping! We were both completely shocked that everyone was given a (really nice) Nike gym bag, with a free copy of WHIRL Magazine, a leather bracelet, Philip Pelusi product samples, and a Chelsea Collective towel. But wait, there was more! We also got to pick out 4 other items. I picked a Hydro Flask water bottle, a tube of Philosophy lip gloss, a package of make-up remover wipes, and a pack of five Nike hair bands (I don't know about you, but I can never have too many stretchy hair bands). Amy picked out a really nice yoga mat. I'm actually kind of jealous of Amy's yoga mat, but it was a mad rush and I had to make decisions quickly.

photo credit: Kim Ifft Photography

This event and the generosity of Chelsea Collective has truly made my week. I wish them the best of luck on their venture into the women's athleisure market, but I don't think they'll need it. They have great products (at a variety of price points), a great attitude, and great customer service. I would like to see the addition of a handful of really fashion forward brands like Stella McCartney and Y-3, but otherwise they showed up and hit the ground running. I can't wait to come back and find activeware that will help me on my way to becoming a neutron star. I hope you'll join me.

Your Bosom Friend in Pittsburgh,

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Brown Bagging It

 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

I've been spinning around in the eye of a tornado for so long, I've completely lost track of time. Houses, plot points in my novel, contractors, movers, realtors, carpet-paint-countertop-flooring samples were whirling all around me. But here I am, spat out into the sultry month of August. I feel like Dorothy and Rip Van Winkle rolled into one. For the first time in months, my mind is quiet (as my mind gets) and I'm noticing things again. That's-what-she-said-opportunities aren't drifting past me like giant, unconsummated bull's eyes. I can smell the sweet scent of cut grass. The sparrows are chirping. Cicadas are buzzing so loud you can't breathe. My, isn't the sky so very, deeply blue today?

Mr. Franzos and I have done it. We sold those two houses. Now we only have one. We're moved in, it's not done, we're living out of boxes, there's construction dust in our bed sheets - yada yada yada - we haven't slept this well in months. High Fives all around.

But now, how do we cram the joys of summer into one month? Ah, heck, why not into one evening? We have some celebrating to do, but...shoot. Where are those wine glasses? I'll tell you where they are...in the last box we open. 

Here's what we're going to do. It'll be fun. Pennsylvania is an open container law state...so let's brown bag it and try out a romper. Bad decisions make for good stories, no?

graphic credit: Jenn Cotton

(BTW. Here's a handy graphic, from the Grubstreet.com on-line article, Sloshed: How to Drink in Public, the Right Way by Matthew Latkiewicz. Read it here. It's fantastic.)

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

I was inspired this week by drink. Which, is what I want to do during a home remodel. Though honestly, the home remodel is not so bad, it's dealing with Comcast that drives me to the bottle.

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

"That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen." - Charles Bukowski, Women.

But seriously, nothing really drives me to drink. I drink because I do. I'm a writer. I observe, I experience, I drink, I make mistakes, I watch other people make mistakes and I write about it. Perfection is boring. There's no story in perfection or ideals, except for the pursuit of them. That's why Horatio Alger's rags-to-riches stories are so charming. Underdogs are king.  

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

Speaking of underdogs... Let's talk about the humble romper. I'll start. The word romper (and, while we're at it, fashionista,) sounds like fingernails on the chalkboard to me. But who am I to judge? I hang out on park benches...but one more thing, from the drunk wordsmith and we'll move on...the word, romper, always makes me think of Austin Powers on that round bed, trying to get Liz Hurley in the sack for some reason. idk.

But back to underdogs...The romper climbed high this summer, right up from it's humble Daytona origins. I remember back when it was just a elasticized terry cloth thing with white tie straps that always seemed to get stained by cherry popsicles. When the kool-aid stains exceeded neighborhood propriety and the elastic waist rotted out, it was destined to live out the rest of its days, washing the family econoline camper. But no, this summer, the romper rose up from its usual, weekend swap meets at the Rose Bowl and sauntered straight down the runway into dry-clean only fabrics and swanky, air-conditioned department stores on Madison Avenue. This is the American dream. The romper made it. Let us all learn from the romper. 

photo credit: Joshua Franzos

check out my mom jean butt. photo credit: Joshua Franzos

I was also inspired this week by these crazy shoes, which to me, look like brown liquor bags...and on that note, here's maybe the worst decision yet: lose the romper, add a form-fitting dress and you can actually brown-bag it to work. Totally legal, totally HR tolerated.  

each shoe holds a 40oz of Mickey's. photo credit: Joshua Franzos

you know what drunks do? touch their face a lot. Ermagawd! photo credit: Joshua Franzos

What I Wore:

Romper : Mango, on sale here!

Sandals: Free People

Sunnies: vintage Christian Dior.

Your Bosom Friend from Pittsburgh, 

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#StylishPittsburgh

photo credit: Niki Whittle

Whew! I'm still kind of catching my breath here, but let me catch you up on some exciting bloggy things that have happened during my blogging hiatus. The above picture, was taken in May. (May!) That's when I met Niki Whittle of the style blog, Style, Studs and Lace. (Niki!) She's a British transplant in Pittsburgh (!), she's a professional personal stylist (!), she's a fellow WHIRL Magazine Style File alum (see it here!), and she's one of the most masterful net-workers I know. I've only known this snazzy Brit for three months now, but I can already tell she's a fellow kindred spirit. 

“Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It's splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world."    

-  Anne, from the book, Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery

Niki proposed a project that I just couldn't say no to. In spite of all the stuff going on in my life, I made time. She called it #StylishPittsburgh, "a campaign to celebrate and share Pittsburgh's fantastic sense of style" ...and she started out by interviewing and high-lighting little, old me on her blog. Which was an incredible honor. I'd be honored if you read my interview here.

So that was May (May!) but, yesterday, Niki, with the help of Tori Mistick of Wear. Wag. Repeat. Blog, (and serious marketing genius)  got our councilman Dan Gilman to make a proclamation in Pittsburgh. (!) Yesterday, July 28, 2015 was #StylishPittsburgh Day! Read the Post-Gazette article here. 

With councilman Dan Gilman. photo credit: unknown

 I attended the city council meeting to support Niki and Tori, who did all the heavy lifting with the #stylishpittsburgh Day. I was joined by my pal Liz Petoniak and some new friends that I look forward to getting to know better: Belle of the Burgh ,  Yes, Wear That!, and Tribune-Review fashion writer, JoAnne Harrop.

Just us Girls. photo credit: Good Samaritan

Niki and Me from Instagram

#OOTD from instagram

 Pittsburghers, look sassy. (sassy?)  I'm looking for you and if you cut the mustard, (did she say, mustard?)  I'll take a street fashion picture of you and post it on the #StylishPittsburgh facebook page - that's right, I'm an admin now!

Okay, I'm out of breath again, so that's all for now. Look for a post from me soon. I've missed you!

 Your Bosom Friend from Pittsburgh,

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