Personal Style Blogs & My Thoughts About Them.

So here’s the lowdown, people: I read a lot of blogs. Roughly a million. Roughly, I said.

I read blogs on a variety of subjects, ranging from writerly blogs to DIY to cooking to fashion and personal style. All of them are my favorite. I love the blogs. I really enjoy exploring personal aesthetics, so I find myself especially drawn to personal style/outfit type blogs. The creativity that can be infused into the simple act of dressing oneself is fascinating.

But, you know, every up has its down. Style blogs have a lot of ups for me, but they also have some downs.

For one. ATTENTION style bloggers, your feet are not the center of the universe. Stop looking down at them in all of your pictures. I know it’s got to be hard to come up with interesting poses day after day. But still.

“Up here, Michael. Up here.”

Is there a bug crawling out of your shoe? Did you step in gum? Have you suddenly discovered a freak sixth toe? No? Then stop it right now. It wouldn’t be so bad if everyone wasn’t doing it, but everyone is doing it. It looks so damn contrived. In a magazine? Ok. I give it a pass because of the part where it’s a magazine. But if this is your “real life” style blog then it’s kind of like we’re hanging out in real life and I say “Hey, cute outfit!” and you just stand there looking down at your feet. Not ok.

Also, the foot-stare combined with the Mona Lisa half-smile. That has to go. Your shoes did not just whisper something wry to you. You may not smile at your shoes that way in public. Sometimes I too have the urge to smile at my shoes. But, privately; inside my house. Follow my lead.

All of that aside, the thing that really makes my skin crawl is how overly branded some style bloggers are. It’s Tory Burch this, J. Crew that (good god, the J. Crew). I like J. Crew and I am by no means opposed to brands, but it feels devoid of creativity. You saw it in a J. Crew catalog and then you wore it. I may love the look, but I’m left wondering where the personal style came in. I look at those pictures and all I see is $$$ and plug-and-play trends, and I’m left feeling like I’m looking at yet another advertisement.

That being said, there are loads of great style blogs out there that may or may not succumb to these pitfalls. Besides which, given the choice between reading blogs that sometimes annoy me and no blogs at all, I CHOOSE BLOGS ALWAYS BLOGS.


Life & The McGriddle.

Some days I wake up, brush the dog hair out of my face (daily occurrence), and think to myself: why did I buy a pug in the first place?

…Ok. I do wonder that sometimes, but that’s not actually where I was going with this.

What I really wonder sometimes is why I don’t have a sausage & cheese McGriddle delivered to my bedside every morning. On a little fancy pillow or something, you know?

Ok, that wasn’t it either. And I know the answer to that already. The answer is: no one will sign up for this job. I have to go get the freaking thing myself every day.

It’s hard work. I need an intern.

Ok, the actual question is: what am I really, like really, doing, really? LIKE REALLY?

Doing something you don’t care about day in/day out is a pretty standard way of life for a lot of us. But, damn. I’d rather never eat a sausage & cheese McGriddle again than spend a hefty portion of each week on stuff I don’t care about.

Yet that is my life. And, if we’re being honest, it’s the life I’ve – in some way or another – chosen. Also, in reality, I don’t get to have the sausage & cheese McGriddle EITHER, so really…?

It’s like Creed said, “If I can’t scuba, then what’s this all been about?” It’s just like that. Except substitute the McGriddle (or fulfillment – your pick) for scuba. And there you have it.

Maybe I don’t quit my job because, well, a million reasons (and just quitting to run away from something something rather than quitting because I’m moving on to something better is stupid), but the time I’m not at work should be filled to bursting with all the good stuff – the stuff that gets my blood pumping and my creativity flowing.

Like drawing pictures of the McGriddle pancake-syrup hybrid food. Seriously, that is some frankenfood if I ever tasted it. (Not that I’ve tasted it. But you know what I’m saying. If.)


Dot Shoes

Yeah. It’s a picture of my feet. I’m that kind of blogger, I guess.

Oh, and I suppose I should mention my hideously dirty floor. It’s…hideously dirty. Because it’s a floor and that’s where feet go. And because I can’t find my mop? Or I don’t own a mop? Or something?

Anyway, let’s focus on the cute shoes, shall we? The polka dot thing – I’m into it.

I used to avoid polka dots because I thought they looked childish/Minnie Mouse Chic, but it’s all about how you wear them. The size, the color, etc. make a big difference.

Apparently I’m into pattern mixing too, because this ensemble’s got everything – stripes, floral, dots. I’ve never been shy about patterns. Some people find my choices strange, but then again maybe they’re the strange ones.

Ever thought about THAT, normal people?

Measure by Measure.

Lately, I’m in a baking mood. Which really means I’m in a ‘window shopping for cute baking things’ mood. I love the simplicity of these West Elm measuring utensils.  1 / 2 / 3

Summer Summer.


Seasons were made for fickle people like me. I love all the seasons. I really do. But right smack dab in the middle of a beautiful, perfect, sunny summer, I’m like, ‘You know what’s great? FALL. FALL IS THE BEST. And RAIN. LOTS OF GLOOMY RAIN.’

And then I convince myself I could live in that one season forever. Forever and ever and ever. But I get just as excited about winter, spring, and summer when their turns come. I just like change. (Well, change in the seasons. Not, like, change in life. No. That sh*t is rough.)

I love falling in love with new color palettes, wardrobe changes, holiday decor, all of it.

But you know what? Today is a Perfect Summer Day, and for the moment I’ve forgotten all about my fickle autumn daydreams.

How to Lose at Life: My Autobiography.

Today I lost my car in a parking garage.

Usually when that happens (because, let’s be real, this is obviously not the first time), it’s because I, with my usual scintillating brilliance, forget to notate where exactly in the giant mass of cars I have parked my one particular car.

Probably because I am usually checking Instagram while walking away from my car and can not be bothered to look up because PICTURES AND STUFF!

But today? I notated. In fact, not only did I notate, but a witness ALSO notated.

3B. I was parked in 3B. I knew I was parked in 3B, but where was my car? It was nowhere, that’s where it was.

I wandered around the magical black hole of 3B in my (obviously ridiculous and uncomfortable) heels muttering sadly to myself and watching while about half a dozen other people did the same thing. Except that they all had little alarmy locatey thingys for their cars and all I had was Instagram. Which, to be honest, was not really doing it for me at that moment.

Finally, I gave up in despair and dragged my be-heeled feet down the stairs to the valet below, where I sat pitifully until someone noticed me. Then I told this person that I had “lost my car” which, apparently, is a thing. Because immediately he gave me the number for security.

I called the number and moments later a security VAN appeared (whatever happened to golf carts?). I hopped in and the little security lady drove me immediately to my car. Which was parked in 3B.

When I called to tell my husband about this incident, he did not think it was OMGFUNNY but he did think it was OMGDUMB. In fact, his exact words were, “I don’t understand.”

What’s not to understand? I inexplicably lost my car even though I knew exactly where it was. DUH VERY SIMPLE.


Here’s How It Goes.

The other day I was walking my dog because I am a responsible dog owner. (I am a responsible dog owner, I am a responsible dog owner, I am a responsible dog owner <— what I chant to myself when I would rather sit on the couch and read some person’s blog about what they wear every day.) (I do that sometimes.) (Don’t judge.)

Anyway. I was walking the dog and he was panting like we were climbing Mt. Everest because he is a pug and his anatomy is a mess. I may have been panting too, but we’re just going to leave that alone for now.

I looked up to see an older couple with an adorable dog coming toward us. So, of course, I’m already having a panic attack because probably they will look at us and then eye contact will occur and then words and talking and stuff.

So I stared at the asphalt as I do. But then, because I was thinking so hard about not talking to them, I looked up and initiated an awkward social interaction. Kind of like that thing where you’re on the edge of a cliff and you have the sudden urge to jump. Except you’re not supposed to actually jump. 

“Your dog is adorable,” I said. Which was fine. Very normal. Well done. “He looks like, uh, that dog from the cartoons.”

“Oh? Which one of the thousands of cartoon dogs would that be?” The woman did not say. But thought it, obviously.

“You know, the, uh, sheep dog.” I barreled on, like a train headed into a brick wall at full speed. (In retrospect, the dog looked nothing like a sheep dog. But I couldn’t stop.)

And because I was now committed to this theme and wanted to really hammer out all the details, I said “People always point at my dog and say ‘hey, it’s the dog from Men in Black.'”

<forced laughter>

“What’s his name?” The woman said.

“Oh, I don’t remember.”

<confused/concerned stares>

“Oh, you mean my dog’s nameHaha, I thought we were…talking about the dog from…Men in Black…his name is Piper.” 


“But I think the dog in the movie was called Frank.” I said, to nobody who cared.

And then that was it. We turned our separate ways and walked hurriedly out of each other’s lives.

It hurts to recall this memory, but honesty in blogging is important and I am a Woman of Principle. 

The Proper Capitalization of Titles.

Sometimes I get hung up on ridiculous things.

As an exercise, let’s try to turn that sentence into a properly capitalized title:

Sometimes I Get Hung Up on Ridiculous Things

‘Sometimes’ is capitalized because it’s the first word as well an adverb. ‘I’ is a proper noun. ‘Get’ is a verb and ‘hung up’ is acting as an adjective describing ‘I.’ ‘Ridiculous’ is an adjective, ‘things’ is a noun, and that just leaves ‘on’ which is not capitalized because it is just a plain old preposition consisting of only two letters.

So, did you catch that? Sometimes I get hung up on ridiculous things.

As in, I miss the point of life because I’m busy googling proper capitalization rules.

I’ve been trying to write a novel for about 6 months. But let’s really focus on how many dresses I own. For what occasions are my dresses appropriate? CAN THEY BE BELTED OR CAN THEY NOT BE BELTED?

Who cares, I ask you, Self? I would really like to be wearing a dress to my first book-signing one day, but let’s cross that little bridge when we come to it, yes? I’m pretty sure dresses will still be sold in 2085, or whenever you finally get your ass in gear. By then, you’ll be a great-grandmother who wears floral nighties to every occasion because she doesn’t give a shit about your new-fangled fashions, so problem solved. (Can a floral nighty be belted? I say yes. But Great-Grandma? She doesn’t care.)

I need to stop distracting myself from important things with unimportant things that I will literally kick myself for in years to come. I’ll look back and want to punch myself for EVER thinking it was a good idea to watch every episode of an idiotic-yet-addicting show like Nashville. Seriously. Those hours could’ve been invested in online shopping reading blogs writing. Or, I don’t know, exercising – so I can spend my great-grandmotherly years being active and showing off those floral nighties all over town.

Flash those veiny legs, Grandma!

That’s off-topic. (But fun!)

Anyways, here’s to a little bit more focus and a little less frenzied obsession over ridiculous things. My mental life could use some paring down and some direction – I already have an idea of what that will look like, but it’ll take some quiet time with some lists to really get things going.

The Importance of Days That Are Not Monday.

Brunch Flowers

What if every day was Monday?

Before you begin thinking about that – stop, don’t do it! It’s a horrible thought. I’m sorry I said that.

Let’s talk instead about how beautiful it is that sometimes we get days that are not full of busy things that we have to do, but are full instead of flowers, food, and friends. That’s way better than a Monday. Unless your Mondays are really awesome somehow in which case I hate you and we’re not speaking.

At some later point we should discuss how people should not, in fact, hate Mondays because that’s actually a terrible way to live. But for now, whatever.


The End.

Well. That Was Monday.

I’m pleased to report that with minimal resolve and maximum procrastination, I managed to survive the first day of this dreaded week.

I am procrastinating even now – putting off the reasonable bedtime that will allow me to wake at an unreasonable hour to accomplish the things.

I don’t want to go to bed because I don’t want it to be tomorrow, because tomorrow is the day of reckoning for all procrastination heretofore.

Is that an appropriate use of the word heretofore?

Is that even how you spell it?

I don’t know, I’m busy.

Still striving for balance. Smiled a lot more than I thought I would, though. Check!