Harling Ross - My Tomayto

The other day, The Outnet asked its twitter followers if they remembered getting their first pair of jeans. Well I do, and I also relish any opportunity to tell stories about my adolescence, particularly when they involve adventures and misadventures in style.

I got my first pair of jeans when I was 13. Pretty late in the game, considering that most of my classmates had lost their denim virginities far earlier. But not me. I was all about the leggings and the khakis. (It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.) In fact, I downright refused to own jeans for a large part of my tweendom because I just didn't like them. But in 7th grade, I caved to The WOMan, and by that I really mean I succumbed to my realization that I needed to get my act together and cease relegating my legs to the sartorial life of a suburban housewife. So I asked my mom to buy me jeans. I envisioned a lightly distressed pair of Sevens for All Mankind with those tell-tale embroidered A's on the back pockets. What I got was a stiff indigo pair from Gap Kids. Size 14 slim. Adjustable waistband. Slightly bootcut. Ready for action.

Let's get one thing straight: these jeans were not comfortable. Despite being the correct size, they dug into me in the worst places. After sitting in them for long periods of time, I craved a drawstring and some lycra like your estranged great aunt craves booze at family gatherings. (These were the olden days, a.k.a. pre-jeggings, kiddies. Pre-options, really.) But I wore them all the same. I wore them to dress down days at school and my cousins' soccer games and church youth group. I wore them to my first official 7th grade dance, a seminal event at which my jeans were also introduced to the joys and wonder of 50 Cent. I wore them until I grew out of them about a year later.

Puberty, man. It's what's for dinner. Or at least it was at the time. I seized the chance provided to me by my widening hips to coax a new pair of jeans out of my mother. Courtesy of a trip to T. J. Maxx, I was soon the proud owner of a pair of ultra light-wash Levi's. Toterly classic. I was quite content with these old faithfuls for awhile. They clothed my bottom half during the two biggest events of my 8th grade year: getting my braces on, and getting my braces off.

Then came high school, and that's when designer jeans really started to take off, at least in my world. It was like Pokémon gotta catch 'em all: Sevens, Hudson, True Religion, Citizens of Humanity, and J Brand were some of the original players. I think I had about six pairs in total. Back pocket design was incredibly important, so your ass became a veritable stage for social currency. I remember my favorite pair of jeans at the time were from People's Liberation--yeah, that's right, unique, mofos. No one else had them. Their back pockets featured star patches and a small flap. They also had a skinny cut leg, which was a fetus of a trend at the time. It was all very exciting.

Fast forward to now, and I'm in yet another denim phase, new and different in its own right. I own two pairs of jeans--that's it. A stretchy, super comfy, dark blue skinny pair from Uniqlo and a distressed, relaxed fit "boyfriend" style pair from Zara. Together, they probably cost a total of $80, but their collective versatility in the grand context of my wardrobe can't be beat. They also both fit me perfectly. Like a crotchety elderly woman on her last demanding limb, I absolutely refuse to wear uncomfortable pants at this stage of life.

So that's my evolution and the denim that goes along with it. Next up, overalls?

There's something to be said for a little simplicity once in awhile. Every year, when it starts to get warmer outside, I am start to be a big proponent of Not white? No thanks. Today's sunshine offered an excuse to get a jumpstart on my monochroming and professional squinting.

Maybe it's the collective sartorial connotations of baptisms and weddings and P. Diddy, but head-to-toe feels somewhat transformative to me in the sense that it implies the beginning of a new season, both literally and figuratively. I am not getting baptized or married or attending an all white party, but I am going to the dentist next week, so there's that.

For the sake of adding some contrast to my human doily aesthetic, I threw in a red lip and a DIY choker (by DIY I simply mean, take that wrap bracelet and put it around yo neck, son).

Now go out and enjoy this weather, fruit loops.

Calypso skirt (similar here), Lemon Tee camisole, Vanessa Bruno vest, Roberto Festa shoes, Hermes bracelet-turned-choker.

"Hey, are you on your way to the gym?"

"NO BUT THX YOU'RE SOOO SWEET FOR ASKING."

That, pals, was a conversation that took place in my dreams, but I'm hoping to transition it into Real Life as soon as possible.

In case you hadn't noticed, summer is fast approaching, and with it, the season of semi-shaved legs and growth-challenged pants (more commonly known as shorts). But to tell you the truth, I'm a little weary of your typical shorts fare these days. Denim cutoffs? Been there. Neatly pressed chinos? Done that. Billowing linen? Eh. Allow me to let you in on my latest secret brain craving extroardinaire: gym shorts. Nope, not kidding. Give me mesh or give me death.

There are a number of reasons why gym shorts should be on your list of summer staples right now. Not only do they totally accommodate your warm weather potential to perspire, but they also feature other delights such as a socially acceptable elastic waistband, bright colors often bordering on the neon, and incomparably breathable thigh room as demonstrated most adeptly by Michael Cera's running club in Juno. Let that one sink in why don't you.

Furthermore, gym shorts, when decisively styled for non-treadmill-related activities, manage to embody that perfect variation on cool kid summer casual. A touch of irony (gym shorts with no intention of gym-ing), a bit of perceived impulsiveness (duh I totally just threw these on this morning-- do you see this elastic band???), and a healthy dose of sartorial contrast (my feminine structured blouse says "lady," my drawstring Nike shorts say "where the marathon?"). Yes, friends, thanks to your clothing choices, you are a walking parenthetical.

So open up your drawer containing all that athletic shiz--you know the one--and break out those gym shorts. If someone asks you if you're on your way to Soul Cycle, give them a hug for the compliment and politely gesture at your impractical footwear.

Sports bras are optional but encouraged.

Now for some inspiration:

Adidas by Stella McCartney shorts, Preen by Thornton Bregazzi top, Givenchy shoes, Olympia Le-Tan clutch, Byrogue knuckle ring, Dannijo necklace.

Gilly Hicks shorts, Carven sweater, Isabel Marant sneakers, Asos clutch, Juan Carlos Obando cuff, Cheap Monday sunglasses, Bardot ear piece.

Adidas by Stella McCartney shorts, Sacai shirt, Jeffrey Campbell shoes, Harveys Seatbelt Bag clutch, Prada sunglasses, Larose cap.

Araks shorts, Chloé top, Ancient Greek Sandals, Dolce & Gabbana purse, Dannijo cuff, J Dauphin moon necklace, Gogo Phillip star necklace.

When it comes to bags (and crossbodies and totes and minaudieres and backpacks and purses and satchels), I'm a grab-whatever's-closest kind of female. I've never craved an "It" bag or saved up for an expensively timeless carryall. I rarely think about what bag will go with an outfit I'm putting together. Frankly, I'm generally much more interested in the clothes and the shoes. I do realize, however, that there's something to be said for the practicality of investing in a nice bag. While most of the items in your closet are on rotation, you can wear the same awesome bag every single day if you're so inclined.

So lately I've been trying to open myself up more to the world of bagdom.

The only problem? My bag interests lean almost exclusively toward clutches. Yes, I want all of the clutches. I want the envelope kind, the boxy kind, the faux novel cover kind, the clear perspex kind... (damn you, my beating heart). Because is there anything less practical, less multi-functional, than a teeny tiny clutch? They look more like hors d'oeuvres than bags for Peter's Freaking Sake. Sure, they can be great for a black tie party look, but when it comes to real life, don't we tend to need a transportable compartment that can house more than lipstick??

ARGHKFLDJJKK they just look so COOL! Unobtrusive, yet decidedly punctuating. In comparison, a regular old medium-sized carryall can feel downright debilitating. Antiquated, even. Clutches hog all the edgy, I-can-fit-my-life-in-a-shoe panache, and who can blame them, really?

There's also the fact that, recently, it seems like designers have been pulling out all dem stops when it comes to producing kickass clutches with very cool and very original designs. Olympia Le-Tan is basically the Goddess In Chief of this movement, but there's also Kotur, and Reece Hudson, and Serpui Marie, and Diane Von Furstenberg, and Marie Turnor, and Kayu... faves on faves on faves. The clutches keep getting better, and my fingers keep looking emptier without one.

So, friends, I bought myself a clutch.

It was love from first spotting: structured, trendily textured, neon, and featuring a concealable crossbody chain just in case the clutch clutching ever got a little tiring. It even looks a little bit edible, a trait which I always tend to enjoy in my sartorial companions.

Now my life really boils down to a game of editing. The clutch can easily hold my wallet, cell phone, and a compact. But what about tissues? Mad libs? Snacks? Not so much. But when you think about it, spring and summer fashion is really, at its heart, a question of The Big Old Edit: sayonara layers, shirts on shirts, hats, gloves, scarves, sweaters, multiple coats, ski masks... the months of muscle tees and mini skirts are upon us. Less is, well, less, and that applies to bags too.

I think what I'm getting at is the idea that the rise of the clutch brings with it a certain, unavoidableClutch Lifestyle-- a way of living, thinking, and dressing that demands capitalized proper nouns, neon-hued minimalism, and a travel-sized stick of sunblock.

Oh, and a $46.43 price tag doesn't hurt.

Zara clutch, J. Crew shirt (similar here), Uniqlo jeans, H&M shoes (similar here), Anthropologie sunglasses.

Hi, I'm Harling. I like long walks on the beach and short sleeved shirts buttoned all the way up. These glasses are fake, as are my soul and various appendages.

Call me crazy, or call me a midlevel paper salesman with an affinity for beets, but the heart wants what the heart wants. And this heart wants bare elbows.

I have been wearing this shirt on a bi-weekly basis ever since coming home from London. I'm not sure what exactly has gotten me so enamored with it... besides its potential for nailing the Jenna Lyons cum hippie geek look, which is a considerable plus with any wardrobe staple.

I've worn it with boyfriend jeans, denim overalls in a certain Urban Outfitters dressing room, and high-waisted white shorts. Today, I'm wearing it underneath an otherwise rather conventional blue dress, because I'm all about perverting the conceivable maturity of an outfit with a good Pepto Bismol floral.

My recommendation to you is to get your hands on a short sleeved button down ASAP. I have proclaimed it The Shirt of Spring 2013, and my opinion is, like, totally powerful in a really average sense.

This one is a vintage Liberty of London that I have acquired by way of my mother's castoffs, but don't be afraid to hunt in the men's section for your own version. The dudes pulverizing wheatgrass in Williamsburg are clearly getting earthy short sleeved shirts SOMEWHERE. This we at least know to be accurate. Maybe they're all borrowing from their girlfriends' closets, maybe not. (Now let's all go forth and collectively embrace that ethos, plus a leopard print shoe or two.)

Kenzo dress, Liberty of London shirt (get the look with this or this or this), glasses from Urban Outfitters (similar here), TSE sweater (similar here), Boden shoes (similar here).

Let's talk about my hair again, MMKAY? Having already let you in on my struggles to tame my--wait for it--Lock Ness Monster (this is the part of the show when you tell me to go die alone), I think it's only fair that I update you on the latest phase in my hair adventures.

I have been on a quest for edgier tresses ever since people started chopping theirs off right and left in the past few months. Everywhere around me (and by that I mean, everywhere on the Internet), females were sporting above-the-shoulder hair and all the appropriately inflated swagger that comes with it. Suddenly, these women looked cool, impulsive, effortless, and I looked... regular. In its general "tamed" state, my hair was a nice, safe nod to the bat mitzvah attendee fare of my adolesence: honey ash-colored and thick-- perfectly suited to skirt and sweater combos and metallic Tory Burch flats.

As I got older, my style changed, but my hair did not. I kept it long and avoided its natural curly state at all costs with the help of blow dryers and straightening irons and prolonged shower cap usage. In the past year, no matter how much I've yearned for short, short, shorter, I've maintained my hair length simply because gravity is the foe of frizz, yo, and frizz is what I've got. Not one but many hairstylists have warned me to never, ever cut my hair short. "It needs the weight," they've cautioned. "Or else, you know..." The end of that sentence is usually left unfinished, as if the horrors of my would-be haircut are too terrifying to utter and therefore much better left to my imagination. I always nod my head yah, I know.

But GUYS I needed new hair to go with my new Alaia shoes, amongst other things, and after weekly threats to just freaking chop it or go brunette (which only conjured expressions of bemusement from my doubting friends and family members), I finally did something. A small something.

Yesterday I went blonde. Er. (That's blonder, for you cool kids in the back). I went to the hair salon and put myself in the capable hands of a man named Francis, who in four hours took my hair to its new lighter state.

And let me tell you, I really like it. With my darker eyebrows and white-ish blonde hair, I feel sort of like a plebeian version of Abbey Lee Kershaw after she went platinum in 2010. I'm probably giving myself way too much mental cool cred with that image, kind of like when I listen to the "rap strength training" playlist on Pandora and get all strut-y, but there's something particularly amazing about change, albeit small, that feels right. Amiright? At any rate, my short hair cravings have been suppressed for the time being. I'm all long hair don't care in a very literal sense. The sun is shining, my hair is reflecting, and all is well.

Now we can all have a bit of a laugh because I realize my hair doesn't even look THAT different. Feel free to mock me for the amount of excessive wordage I can spew about some glorified highlights. You could also possibly comment: DUDE, IF ACQUIRING SLIGHTLY BLONDER HAIR IS TRULY VENTURING OUT OF YOUR COMFORT ZONE THEN YOU NEED HELP (IN THE FORM OF SKYDIVING), or something similar. But I'm all about mind-enhanced baby steps, people. This is only the beginning. Tomorrow I'm off to the tattoo parlor to get the full arm sleeves I've always dreamed of since I was a little girl. Stay tuned.

P.S. In case you were not aware, the title of this post is set to the tune of the Isley Brothers' "Shout." That's all.

Lunch, in my opinion, serves as an ideal canvas for the proverbial what-to-wear conundrum. Whereas brunch is decidedly casual and dinner veers toward the formal, lunch has more leeway. It is the everyman of meals. It can move in the soup and salad direction just as easily as it can involve a glass of wine and some gourmet macaroni. Lunch is elusive, and so is its fashion. (If this discussion is making you feel overwhelmingly female, clap your hands and snap your bra strap. I love making music with you guys.)

Anyways, lunch.

I had it today with the entirety of my five-member family, which is a rarity thanks to three different schools and the varying schedules involved. As such, we celebrated and went to a relatively nice restaurant. So when I started to think about what to wear this morning, I knew I'd have to look a particular breed of fancy-- lunch fancy. It is unlike regular fancy in that it is slightly more casual, or more loosely defined, really. For me, this nebulous category of dressing meant inevitably walking out the door with parts of my body leaning formal and others relaxed. A little bit of both, and you've got yourself a look that can swing either way, which is pretty much ideal for midday food consumption.

You see, my hypothesis about lunch dressing is that your outfit needs to be adaptable. It's got to be the kind of outfit that you can wear to a nice meal and subsequently alter ever so minimally to suit the rest of the day's needs. For example, after today's lunch I came home and replaced my skirt and heels with skinny jeans and white sneakers and put my hair up in a low messy bun. Voila presto transition from semi-fine dining to afternoon schlumping. (Confession: there was a brief, one-hour window later on in which every bit of this ensemble was temporarily cast aside in favor of gym shorts and a batman t-shirt for a stroll around the reservoir, because mama's gotta get her highly intensive daily form of exercise out of the way, and yes I promise never to refer to myself in the third person as mama ever again.)

But what matters is that, for the most part, my outfit took me seamlessly from lunching at a restaurant with a no-jackets-hanging-on-chairs rule (yah, one of those types of places) to the glorious confines of my couch. That, folks, is what a good lunch outfit should do--enable your lunch-level fanciness for a couple of hours and then transition you into the next part of the day with only a few tweaks. In my case, I tweaked toward the casual for my post-lunch look, but if I wanted to move in a more formal direction for drinks or dinner later, I would probably just change out of my button down shirt and into a black cami and maybe put on some red lipstick. Again, the lunch outfit provides the axis for the rest of the day's fashion pendulum.

Obviously the neck disco remains with me 24/7 no matter what I'm doing or where I'm going because it's RAD.

So, am I on to something important? The crucial bones of lunch dressing? Assuage my doubts and tell me I'm brilliant, or instruct me to quit making weird, belaboring mountains out of mundane fashion molehills.

Valentino skirt (similar here), Zara shirt, Chanel shoes (similar here), Charlotte Ronson jacket (similar here), random necklaces and bracelets-turned-necklaces.

P.S. Still working on werking the blonder blonde.

Did you guys watch the Kentucky Derby on Saturday? WELL I DID. I'm not really that into horse racing, but my cousins invited me to watch on their huge TV before dinner, and considering they only live two floors below me in my apartment building turned familial village, and I had nothing better to do that evening besides examine my pores in a magnified mirror, I thought why not? I arrived in style and after reviewing the list of contenders, I placed my imaginary mental bets on a horse named "Overanalyze," because that is something I am wont to do. The actual race was over in a matter of minutes (my pick did not win-- so much for rooting for your brain's obvious soulmate), but do you know what really stuck with me during this brief window of widescreen observation?? The fashion.

No, sillies, not the spectators' fashion--I couldn't care less about the weird hats and country club attire. I had my eye on the jockeys. They seriously had THE BEST outfits. As I watched them zipping around the track on top of their horses with their tiny backsides waving in the air, all I could think was emulate, emulate, emulate (the fashion, not the pose--my hamstrings aren't ready for that shiz).

I couldn't get enough of the bright colors, the stripes, the turtlenecks, the stylistic nods to court jesters and 80s tracksuits and geometry textbooks... it was heavenly. I quickly decided that all I want is to resemble a minuscule yet muscular horse riding clown for the rest of the week. Yah know?

So I came home from dinner and sat down in front of my laptop to hunt for internet inspiration. Aftering scrolling through a bajillion pictures and online shopping pages, I couldn't help but visually dwell on the Spring 2013 line of Sportmax. Incidentally or not, Sportmax's spring collection happens to embody the derby jockey look BRILLIANTLY (including a perfect, chicly rendered pair of jockey trousers). It's all about clean lines, defined shapes, bold colors, and lots of stripes and checks. I've been salivating over certain pieces for a while now, but after watching Saturday's race, the whole collection seems to have taken on an entirely new potential for nailing the warm weather cool factor. I am currently scanning my closet and imagining outfits composed of lots of sporty white punctuated with touches of big, bright patterning. I'm keen on looking like a high resolution game of tetris with a dash of tennis referee thrown in for good measure. Apparently that's my ultimate definition of Kentucky Derby jockey fashion. Boom. Here's some Sportmax mind fuel for both of us:

All Sportmax: shift dress, printed sleeveless top, striped scarf, striped pullover, leather wrap skirt, belt, ankle boots, clutch, yellow mini skirt, knit sweater top, trousers, chevron dress.

Dearest Met Gala Divinities & Co.,

Let me start off my saying I LOVE THE MET GALA. It is seriously sublime. Always a treat. Way better than normal red carpet events. I always get excited to watch Hollywood dance the fine line between fashion and crazy, considering that I've chosen the latter and I'm sticking with it.

Not the same approach.

Anyways, I looked up "punk fashion" on Wikipedia at around 10:27 p.m. last night. Basically, to sum up my recently acquired knowledge, punk fashion is about embracing the ugly--the messy, the unexpected, the harsh--and rolling it into one big I will cut you kind of look. (Am I on track so far?) Over the years, designers like Vivienne Westwood, Jean Paul Gaultier and Versace have taken at hack at sending "punk" down the runway, but theirs was a somewhat pretty-fied rendition of the real deal, I think.

Herein lies the problem. It's tough to make punk look pretty. And based on my life experience and copious years of observing society and, ya know, red carpets, peeps usually want to look pretty. Especially if they are actresses and/or models (a.k.a. the most photographed attendees of the Met Gala) and spend 99% of their daylight and post-daylight hours workin' on their fitness so as to obtain The Peak of Pretty.

PRETTYYYYYYY!!

Which is why I was OVERJOYED that you chose Punk: Chaos to Couture as the 2013 theme. I have so many things to say, so many feelings. Thank you, kind sirs and madams, for providing the world with this collective viewing pleasure. Thank you for giving Anna Wintour the chance to completely ignore the call to punk and opt for a Chanel floral instead. Thank you for prompting Tory Burch to confess, "I tried." Thank you for neglecting to consider how Kate Upton's chest buddies would cope. Thank you for preemptively weeding out the men from the boys (read: those who wore mohawks, those who did not). Thank you for the pictures of custom designed septum jewelry floating in the abyss of my Instagram feed. Thank you for Mary-Kate Olson's embroidered robe, for Miley Cyrus's newfound resemblance to the pre-millenium Lance Bass, and for Taylor Swift's evil grandma hair. Thank you most of all for Tim Minchin's guyliner, which was magical and spoke to me in a truly visceral way.

They speaketh.

Personally, I'm advocating for next year's theme to be "Zesty Pilgrim Fashion: From the Mayflower to the Colonies." Is there a suggestion box?

Love,

Harling

Bonjour, fiends, and welcome to story hour at My Tomayto. Once upon a time, circa December 2012, I decided that the one item my closet really, truly lacked was a white leather jacket. I knew in my heart that owning and wearing one such jacket would make pretty much any outfit that much cooler. Obviously a leather jacket can be a staple in any form, but make it white, and you've got yourself a whole new world of possibilities: more unique than brown, less motorcycle-y than black, but still maintaining a sense of classically minimalist neutrality eschewed by the pigmented family at large (plum, red, cobalt...), white was what I wanted.

Furthermore, my dreams and aspirations are rarely left unspecified for long, so not only did I want a white leather jacket, but I wanted the white leather jacket. By that I mean, I quickly had a particular specimen in mind--Theory's Elenian Leather Jacket in white. It was perfecto: freaky good hardware, sizable lapels, grained leather, and the ideal, vaguely a-line fit. However, at a hefty price point, it wasn't something I would ever buy on a whim. I resigned myself to the game of waiting and watching. I played my own devil's advocate. Would I want the jacket a month from now? Two months? Would it really mesh well with the contents of my closet? Would I wear it for the next ten years at least?? Was it worth the money I'd have to spend to make it mine forever and ever?

Fast forward to my highly casual visit to the Madison Avenue Theory store on the very first day of its Friends & Family 30% off sale two weeks ago, and it turns out my answer to all these questions was YES.

Reader, I bought the jacket. I hope those words are as meaningful to you as the first line of the final chapter in Jane Eyre because THIS MOMENT is the soaring climax of my story (gather round, cue the orchestra, grab your tissues, call me a d-bag for that annoyatron literature reference, etc., etc.) because I DID IT. New York sales tax and all. I carried the jacket home with me and spread it out on my bed and congratulated myself on playing the game and winning it, despite the hit to my pocketbook. Isn't there something uniquely satisfying about pondering an acquisition of any kind for a long time and finally obtaining it? Sort of like when Brad and Angelina adopted Pax.

For me, that feeling of oh-so-sureness really can't be beat. But now that I own The White Jacket, I am of course confronted with an entirely new, yet related, hurdle: the debut. Ah, the debut. I am a classic overthinker of the manner in which I will wear a new article of clothing for its first outing into the world at large on my bod. I've been this way ever since fashion became somewhat meaningful to me in like sixth grade and suddenly I was all omg should I debut my new J. Crew pique halter dress at Bingo Night or the end-of-summer Clambake????? OH, THE AGONY. I think I wore it to Bingo Night. Can we still be friends?

Ten years later and I'm still the same head case with only a marginally better grasp of the ins and outs of life and love (naw). I still attach an extensive sense of significance to the first time I wear something, be it a new friendship bracelet, a fresh hand-me-down from my mom, or a recently acquired sweater. It is my perfectionist bent rearing its head. I want my new clothes to have a topnotch introduction to the public, complete with the right accompaniments, the right setting, the right timing... and this [endearingly?] compulsive mentality certainly applies to me new Theory jacket. I just want it to be special!!! (Did you know I'm female?? Okay good.)

But here's the thing, pals. With my camera, a sidewalk, access to Wifi, and plans to consume a snazzy dinner, the timing can pretty much always be right. ZINGaLINGaDING. (Question: did the pictures of the jacket spoil the punchline of this drama-filled narrative?? I thought so.)

Theory jacket, Ralph Lauren skirt, Chanel top (similar here), Prada shoes.

Unless you've been hiding under a rock or studying on the bottom floor of a library or nestling in the sheltered arms of your island-dwelling lover for the past month, you're probs aware that Baz Luhrmann's movie adaptation of The Great Gatsby is coming out on Friday. Jay-Z's musical talents and Leonardo DiCaprio's gelled cowlick both feature prominently. It is kind of a big deal.

The World of Fashion at Large is pretty freaking psyched about the film, considering that anything related to Fitzgerald's most widely read novel promises loads of glam period style inspiration. And there's something in particular about 1920s fashion that is so alluring to the sartorially inclined (mood boards! shop the look! magazine features! capsule collections! BE Daisy Buchanan!). Because who doesn't flip for a good fringe and a glitzy skull cap??

This morning alone, I have already stumbled across four different Gatsby fashion online visuals, and each of them got me to seriously consider DIY-ing a feather handband. You'd think that the whole "1920s fashion inspiration" shtick would seem a little, well, tired at this point-- that the waifish, Zelda Fitzgerald appeal of a drop-waist satin shift dress would finally dwindle to the point of everyday fashion banality, but nope, the appeal remains. Lauded styles of the past have an incredible staying power. I mean, Midnight in Paris only came out two years ago, but here we are again, lusting after the same red-lipped, pearl-bedecked stimulation with equal excitement.

I guess one of the coolest things about fashion is the fact that there is still always something fresh to think about, to discover, and to reinvent no matter how many times we look to a certain period in history or a past movement or a long lost cultural aesthetic for style inspiration. This time, Miuccia Prada has provided the proof for that pudding, creating 40 bespoke looks for Luhrmann's film that combine typical 1920s fashion fare with a distinctly modern edge. It's 21st century Gatsby--brighter colors, flashier detailing, and more cleavage.

So here you'll find my contribution to this round of 1920s mania (minus the cleavage): a completely wearable look inspired by Prada's modern day vision of Gatsby with a twist, plumbed from the contents of my very own 2013 closet. No trips to the costume store, no glue guns, no time machines. F. Scott's world is getting a My Tomayto makeover, replete with denim, a makeshift choker, and bad attempts at winking. If that idea is sufficiently frightening to you, I think you're ready.

Vintage Chanel dress, ID Wear denim jacket, Chanel shoes, Chanel charm necklace, DIY choker (piece of ribbon + clip-on earring), vintage fur piece.

And if you're looking to create your own Daisy-Buchanan-gone-21st-century-rogue look, here's some more inspiration:

Swarovski choker, Topshop cami, Tim Ryan fringed skirt, Chanel vintage camelia brooch, Prada multicolored stole, Iosselliani bangles, Zara shoes, Tasha crystal hair clips, Missoni scarf (wear it as a headscarf obvs), Dannijo earrings, Tucker jacket, Sylvia Toledano clutch, Sabine shield ring, Lolita Jewelry pearl necklace, Shameless Jewelry art deco ring, NARS satin lip pencil in Golshan, Alberta Ferretti dress (looks SUPER cool with leather pants for a very 1920s meets 2013 look, as styled on the Net-a-Porter website), and Karen Millen faux fur stole.

In today's My Tomayto installment, I am proud to announce that I have crossed a brand new line. I'm wearing my dad's shorts.

The way I see it, my father and I have a very special relationship wherein he provides me with 50% of my DNA and a closet full of men's clothing and, in return, I give him my undying love and the occasional hand-knit golf club cover. Which is why I didn't even ask permission before swiping these rad blue shorts from his bureau, partly because I knew he wouldn't really care, but also because I sometimes prefer to delay his perfectly reasonable questions vis à vis my sanity. I mean, my incessant borrowing of his button down shirts is one thing, but shorts? Whole new ball game.

So, dad, let me break it down for you. The trend police have declared, by way of spring 2013's runway collections, that bermuda shorts are in this season (cue fancy siren noise). That's right. Roomy, knee-grazing bermuda shorts. Pictured above, you'll see some evidence via BCBG, Rag & Bone, and Peter Som. As a father, you should be pretty thrilled about this whole longer shorts development, considering that it encourages a level of lower thigh modesty that really can't be matched by other forms of fair weather leg coverage for us females.

Go ahead and high five something sturdy, because while other ladies might be like psh no thanks when it comes to this shift in summer's exposed skin to fabric ratio, I had no doubts about saying UM YES PLEASE.Because despite the extra width that these shorts might add to my overall frame, and despite their utterly man-repellant nature, I won't lie to you: I think they can look really cool.

And while, sure, I could have gone out and purchased a pair of bermuda shorts made and designed specifically for my gender, I am nothing if not committed to borrowing from the boyz, and this seemed like a good opportunity to further the cause. Plus, dad, you're a slender dude, and we have basically the same size waist, so I feel like I need to capitalize upon that semi-unsettling reality. Let's call it looking on the bright side hashtag girlswithskinnydadsproblems. K?

On a related note, one of my favorite parts about wearing men's clothing is the subsequent process of reasserting that I am, in fact, a girl by adding touches of the über-fem to the rest of my outfit. Feet that look like they've been gift-wrapped are decidedly feminine, and in the best way possible.

I'm also super pumped about debuting this crossbody clutch, a vintage find from when I was traveling in Marrakech. It was lying in a pile of old jewelry inside one of the Medina souks, covered in dust, but I polished it up as soon as I got back to the states, and now I think it looks decidedly sophisticated. Definitely has a touch of Daisy Buchanan glamor too.

And that's all I've got re: your shorts, dear father. You have excellent taste in fashion-forward womenswear. Do I still get to sit next to you at the dinner table?

J. Crew men's shorts, DSquared2 top, Chanel jacket, O Jour shoes, vintage crossbody clutch (similar look here and here).

Guys, guys, guys, my grandmother (a.k.a. Nonie) let me revel in the goods of her wardrobe over the weekend!!!! This is a really big deal, FYI. It was tacitly understood that I could look, not take, which was a mental disaster for me considering the amazingness of almost every single item in her possession and my affinity for raiding. You really have no idea.

Truth be told, Nonie is a fashion icon for me in many senses. (And yes am aware of that statement's clichéd nature, but I did refrain from instagramming a pic of my mom nomming her brunch on Mother's Day, so I feel like my cliché quota remains within a reasonable range for now). But Nonie is her own, special breed of the advanced style lot. She's not an Iris Apfel-esque kooky innovator or a purple-haired legend or a billowing white linen pantsuit afficionado. No, my grandmother's fashion talent is simple but deadly in its effectiveness: she has an impeccable eye.

The contents of her closet are so well chosen, so carefully curated, and so unique, they possess a certain lasting relevance that is almost impossible to replicate in this day and age. I know because I have not tried. My own wardrobe is 100% emblematic of the modern female's lofty struggle to balance the Zara with the Other. It is the product of internet-dwelling, irony infestation, fashion blog stalking, twitter-fueled fads, and a street style loop that won't quit. I marvel at my grandmother's closet because, unlike mine, it is incredibly purposeful--each of her pieces have an heirloom quality, a streamlined sense of dutiful service to the wearer that is bound to last generations. Nonie is of the Old Guard, the pre-Fast Fashion track. I envy the slow build of her wardrobe, the pristinely organized color gradation, the textures, the balance between eclectic and classic...

That being said, I would never give up my millenium-birthed ability to purchase thirty lime-colored Zara clutches for the price of one Chanel purse and Instagram a cool cloud formation while I'm at it. That's the world I live in, and I think it's pretty nifty most of the time. Playing dress-up with my grandmother's things is the perfect dose of a periodic alternate reality.

After trying on this outfit, I am all about the casual full length evening skirt, possibly because there are few things less casual in this life. But who's to say what I can or cannot wear to Duane Reade on a gum run? I'm also freaking out in love with this Valentino mullet blouse given that it predates our mullet awareness and is therefore an unknowing ancestor of something culturally transformative.

This blouse combines three of my favorite things: court jester sleeves, mixed prints galore, and a musky scent (you'll just have to take my word for it re: that last quality). But seriously I wanted to steal this shirt so badly, mainly because I can already preemptively envision its seamless transition into my wardrobe. Can't you see it with denim cutoffs and cool strappy sandals? Or how about with a black leather mini skirt and these shoes? Hmm??? Genius. AND it goes swimmingly with my adidas gym shorts, which is, like, eerily relevant to my current lifestyle choices and desires.

I also flipped for this Valentino top because hello unnecessary yet awesome shoulder pads. Is it a tennis polo or a dainty blouse or a gay linebacker uniform? YOU DECIDE. (Side note: I am ready and willing to talk about the weird melanin situation happening in and around my inner elbows. What is going on??? It looks like I have reverse ironing burns or something. Please discuss.)

I love me a good hi-lighter fluid floral. If you were to point out that this Emanuel Ungaro skirt suit makes me look like an extra in a Molly Ringwald movie circa 1985, I would not argue (mainly because that would be the awesomest).

Whether or not my black bra bastardizes my grandmother's awesome sheer Georgio Armani camisole, I think we can all agree that this Chanel eagle clutch is the dopest of all dope clutches. Yes?

Although I'm also partial to these two.

Oh, and this one. (IT HAS A TASSEL, PEOPLE.)

So that's a wonderful fraction my grandmother's closet, still completely relevant to the mind and proclivities of a ~~normal~~ 21-year-old female. Pretty powerful stuff. Who wants to join me for the break-in heist tonight circa 5:30??? Lemme know.

I am having a seasonally-induced identity crisis. Basically, I know, deep down, that I am meant to wear an exorbitant amount of Isabel Marant over the course of the impending warmer months, specifically her Summer 2013 collection. If I had a fairy godmother or the cash equivalent, I would most likely try to acquire the entirety of said collection for myself because it is just that good. (Unfortunately her stuff is quite expensive, so I am mostly resigned to a distanced lusting behind the screen of my laptop and occasional attempts at finding lookalike substitutes for my favorite pieces.)

In psychoanalyzing this phenomenon, I have concluded two things. First, fashion is crazy cool because of is its inherently transportive nature--depending on your sartorial inclinations du jour, you can visually embody whatever evolving version of self-perception makes you feel most powerful at a given point in time. Different clothes, designers, and collections resonate different people accordingly. In consumers' discourse with designers, we each have our own, constantly changing definition of what makes an It Girl It. Second, there's something about summertime that seems particularly suited to stylistic reinvention-- or at least actualization of some kind. Perhaps I'm simply speaking from the perspective of someone who's entering what feels like a rather seminal period in the grand scheme of life--the summer before my senior year of college--but I think it might be more than that. Despite the fact that it occurs without fail every year, summer can be anyone's quasi-crossroads. And because I can't find a better way of saying it myself, let's all turn to page blahblah in The Fortress of Solitude when Lethem describes summer as "that inviting medium for doodling in self-transformation." Boom boom pow. It's so darn true. Summer's naturally slower pace is ripe for the absentminded, opportunistic creativity of doodling selfhood, not to mention the helpful encouragement of that thing called sunshine. The evolution of individual fashion is inevitably swept up in this atmospheric sense of summertime transformation and possibility. You can be and do so many things, your identity is up for the shaping, and clothing (yes, clothing) can carry out a significant part of the visual, tangible portion of this process. IN SUM, IT IS AN AWESOME TIME ALL AROUND.

Speaking personally, Isabel Marant's designs just seem to resonate with my particular vision of selfhood as summer approaches. There is an ease and confidence to her spring collection that I find appealing (read: I want to embody). I want the be The Girl who rocks a one-shoulder printed dress reminiscent of Tarzan's chicest Jane, The Girl who wears leather shorts in the summer without a trace of thigh sweat, The Girl who understands the everlasting cool of Jane Birkin, The Girl who achieves that elusive sartorial combination of Parisian Americana, and The Girl who stylistically nails ingenue-meets-sex-appeal-meets-vacation-meets-1970s. In other words, Isabel (can I call you that?) just understands who I want to be and therefore understands what I want to wear. In other words, we obviously have an uncanny spiritual connection. And if you're wondering what came first: the chicken (and my seasonal identity flux) or the egg (and my undying love for Isabel Marant), I do not have the answer yet.

Shop the collage: t-shirt, skirt, necklace, dress, blouse, ring, shoes.

If you read yesterday's post, you are aware that summer is fast approaching, and with it, a number of personal identity transformations both fashion-related and otherwise. (If you have not read yesterday's post, DO IT, ya crazy kid). After explaining how my own summertime self-actualizing shares a particular kinship with Isabel Marant's Summer 2013 collection, I started to wonder about YOU (by which I mean readers of this blog besides my mom). If you, like me, are on the verge of experiencing a seasonal renaissance of well-sunned selfhood and the corresponding heartfelt connection to a certain look/designer/collection/trend, I WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT. I'm curious like George here, people. This is cool and important stuff.

Maybe your brain strings have yet to latch on to a summer fashion spirit animal. Don't worry, pals, My Tomayto's got you covered. I assembled a round-up of possible identity potentializing brands and their duds to get your respective balls rolling. Take a look and see what resonates with you (it's basically sartorial speed dating, so please bring snacks and friends).

I say tomayto, you say tomahto. I say Isabel Marant, you say........

1) Zimmermann? (Cue manic pixie dream females with street savvy.)

Shop the Zimmermann identity: playsuit, similar cap, underwire bikini top, dress, one-piece swimsuit, shorts (made for kids but you get the idea).

2) Mara Hoffman? (Come hither, ye messy (not dirty) glamazons.)

Shop the Mara Hoffman identity: bikini top, bermuda shorts, dress, cutout collar, one-piece bathing suit.

3) Dolce & Gabbana? (For the approachable sophisticate with a secret second piercing.)

Shop the Dolce & Gabbana identity: dress, lace bra, earrings, shorts, raffia bag, skirt.

4) Clover Canyon? (Something hyphenated is your name, and psychedelic prints are your game.)

Shop the Clover Canyon identity: cropped tank, skirt, sleeveless top, shorts, pants.

5) J. Crew? (You crunch numbers, light up rooms, and run snapchat.)

Shop the J. Crew identity: capri pants, cuff bracelet, panama hat, skirt, sneakers, sweater, sunglasses, shorts.

6) Calvin Klein? (Summer is the only movie set you need.)

Shop the Calvin Klein identity: blazer, sandals, strapless top, skirt, pants.

7) 3.1 Phillip Lim (Attention: bookish city girls with the best zingers.)

Shop the 3.1 Phillip Lim identity: tank, skirt, sunglasses, dress, jacket, purse, loafers.

8) Lacoste? (Calling all ironic prepsters!!!)

Shop the Lacoste identity: Short sleeved shirt, mini skirt, visor, watch, scarf, wristlet, pullover, sweatband, sneakers.

Soooooo, if your review of these delightfully summer-ready brands resulted in a discovery of the cheese to your macaroni (a.k.a. the style counterpart to your summer identity doodling), PLEASE TELL ME IN THE COMMENTS. Luv u.

Because it's Friday and therefore the best, allow me to assist in making it even best[er]. Earlier this week, my friend sent me a link to a Buzzfeed article with what is possibly the best title of all time: "Everything You Forgot About the July 2003 Issue of Vanity Fair."

Whether or not you were, in fact, a reader of Vanity Fair in 2003 and thusly in a position to forget or remember such things (as for me, I was busy being eleven and stuff), it's safe to say that every single human on the planet should be privy to the contents of this article.

I'm sure you have a lot of questions right off the bat (I know I do), but since this is a fashion blog, can we start with why is everyone on the cover dressed in varying shades of puce? PUCE! Okay your turn.

There's nothing like a pillow fight between a future vampire, mommy, and prison inmate taking place in what looks like a room where Hugh Hefner would flock to spend some quality "me" time. Amiright? My eyeballs are inundated with so much uncomfortable innocence.

Mandy, Mandy, Mandy. Am I the only one who still enjoys the occasional listen to "Only Hope" on a cloudy day? Hmm?? P.S. we all need to wear more halter tops.

Vanity Fair really pulled out all the stops with the styling on this shoot. Like, Raven's eyeshadow totes matches the wallpaper. Going forward, I plan on coordinating my look with many an interior. What's a good lipstick for the inside of a dermatologists' office?

LOLZ INFINITY LOLZ. I'm really surprised the Olson twins have not mandated the destruction of all copies of this photo. Not only is their hair looking totally normal and shiny, but they are also wearing form-fitting clothing, and there are no iced coffees in sight. Most importantly, Mary Kate's bra straps are showing here on purpose, whereas now she probs doesn't even own bras. GOSH teendom is so raw.

Allow me to introduce you to a knee-less Alexis Bledel and Amanda Bynes holding on to a magically suspended bar against the backdrop of what looks like a perfectly lovely day. Gravity is for losers, and so is the ground, apparently. Also, according to their answers to some grueling interview questions featured on the floating pink squares (see above), Bynes possesses "eight" Juicy Couture outfits while Bledel has "none." Let's chew on that info for awhile.

So is your life officially changed OR WHAT?

Let's pretend for a minute that I'm the spunky, long-haired heroine of a young adult fantasy novel with a holographic book jacket. My name is probably five syllables long and I've been trained extensively in the female arts a.k.a. harpsichord playing and such. But here's the catch because there's always a catch and usually it appears around Chapter 2: I'm actually really rare and special and not like other girls and willing to make sacrifices and cut my hair off and defy castle rules and go on adventures and stuff because I know there's more to life than this!

In the next part of your stereotypical sword swinging princess tale, I would probably head out to hunt some dragons with the menz and subsequently discover a lot about myself and what it's like to swap saliva with well-chiseled teenage males who challenge me with their wit but also comfort me with their muscles.

Except in MY story, as told on this blog, I venture forth on a much more important quest involving an equal amount of determination and only slightly fewer weapons...

Mine is a continued quest for the perfect pair of walking shoes (with only a couple, very age-appropriate makeouts thrown in for good measure).

The reason I am equating my search for shoes with that of a willful, fictional she-hero's pursuit of mystical beasts comes down to some key commonalities, namely: a super cool chick, a firm belief in the existence of magical creatures (like fire-breathing dragons and/or shoes that are simultaneously attractive and comfortable enough to walk in for many miles), enough patience and pickiness and knowhow to set out and stop for nothing until discovering the very best of these magical creatures, and an Instagram account for proper documentation along the way.

So anyways, back to the story. I searched high and low for the perfect walking shoes. I searched under rocks, inside caves, and on the pages of the Internet. I encountered many important questions over the course of my journey. Should I opt for another pair of tried and true wedge sneakers? What about Keds? Nike Air Maxes? Oxfords? Tevas? The paper shoes they give you at nail salons?? There were lots of options, but none of them felt right.

Then, one day, I found myself dressed in all denim on a side street in Soho with two friends and a couple of quarter-sized cupcakes. That's when we saw the Superga store. Upon entry, we were greeted with a veritable rainbow of footwear--there were silver foil sneakers, American flag sneakers, mauve corduroy sneakers, red glitter sneakers, six different shades of blue sneakers... my friends and I tried on so many Supergas, the single salesman probably mentioned us during a particularly harrowing meta hipster therapy session later that night with his goldfish.

The thing is, I knew when I slipped on the first pair (in classic white), I had finally happened on THE shoes--the perfect walking shoes. Not only were they loin-shudderingly comfortable, they also looked freaking great. They looked just as awesome with my jeans as they did with another customer's filmy chiffon skirt. They weren't too bulky or too precious or too geriatric--they were the perfect, updated cool-ass chic walking shoe, ready and waiting to transport me in comfortable style from downtown to uptown and back again.

I ultimately decided that a certain pale grey linen pair were my Superga soulmates of choice, but the store did not carry them in my size, so I ended up ordering them on Shopbop as soon as I got home. They arrived yesterday, and I'm about to take them out for their first spin around the block(s).

Three cheers for dragon-slaying and other mountainous feats worthy of novels and blister-free walking. Tune in tomorrow for a glimpse at their debut.

HERE WE COME.

If your short-term memory is in working order, you might recall that yesterday's post unveiled my current choice for the perfect walking shoe: Superga sneakers.

I realize that Supergas are by no means new and undiscovered. They've been around for awhile. My first encounter with them was in 7th grade when a girl in my class started wearing a pair she had purchased in Italy. I remember thinking oh, cool sneakers, but that was pretty much it.

Fast forward to the current spot I am occupying on the non-facebook timeline that is my life, and Supergas have once again cropped up in my brain space. This time, however, I took the leap from cool shoes to I want to own you. And so far it's been grand.

These pictures are from yesterday's inaugural sneaker spin, in which I demonstrate how Supergas look AWESOME with skirts. And I know you can't see me right now, but I am currently wearing them with pants as I type these words, and guess what, people?! They also look awesome with pants.

Not every sneaker has the ability to successfully jive with whatever else you might be wearing. I mean, just the other day I decided to walk 50 blocks to meet some friends for lunch, and since my Supergas hadn't arrived yet, I resigned myself to wearing a pair of old New Balance running sneakers. Needless to say, this particular choice of footwear did not work well with my outfit (a cotton dress and lime green clutch). My friends mocked my appearance. I ate my food and shrugged. I had wanted to arrive for lunch looking cooly chic, but I also wanted to avoid mangled feet. I ultimately valued the latter over the former, BUT NOW I DON'T HAVE TO CHOOSE, GUYS. And as a 21st-century Gen Y female, I love it when one of my million daily choices is eliminated right before my eyes. Boom poof gone thx.

Floaty blouse + embellished skirt + shoes you can actually walk in = party at my house.

So call it a miracle, or call it (more accurately), a superior sneaker design concept. I am hooked on these shoes. By the by, they also have great arch support and somehow manage to slenderize my ankles just as successfully as a pair of high heels.

The sneakers even look great with super ladylike touches like brooches. BROOCHES! This is all so magical.

Valentino blouse, Ladakh skirt, Superga sneakers, Chanel scarf, brooch from my mom's closet.

Ah, bathing suits. They're a biznatch.

Swimwear is probably the one category of clothing for which I do not require a shopping limit, simply because no girl has ever walked into a room and announced, "SHOOT I just bought way too many bikinis because they were all so flattering and made me feel so good inside and therefore I could not choose!! Comfort me with kale juice!!"

But summer is coming, and so are a smattering of opportunities for swimming. Given that you are able to read this blog post, I'm guessing that a waterproof diaper and some sunblock isn't going to cover your poolside necessities this year. We need legit bathing suits, and we need them now. Should I ease you into the process with a pun re: "taking the plunge"? I thought so.

The good news is that swimwear options have substantially improved in this century. It may or may not have been collectively decided amongst us millenials that if we must deal with the uncharted perils of twitter, Instagram, facebook, and Vine, we should at least have access to a better bathing suit selection and beach experiences free of measuring tape. I, for one, am considering bringing back the ironic tankini.

Now, feast your eyes on my favorite suits from this season's crop, caucus with your bellybutton, and tell me which one you like best.

From left to right: J. Crew (top and bottom), We Are Handsome, Missoni, Lisa Marie Fernandez, Miu Miu, Adidas by Stella McCartney, Zimmermann, Norma Kimali, We Are Handsome, VPL (top and bottom).

And guys, don't worry if you're feeling deeply overwhelmed by the great one piece vs. two piece debate. Dan Humphrey gets it.

Greetangz, friends, family, and miscellaneous Internet users. Today on My Tomayto, I'm back as everyone's favorite fair weather DIY-er.

First things first: the backstory. For awhile now, I have been very literally cyberstalking Acne's "Olivia" Indigo Denim Vest because never have I ever come across a denim vest with the highly weird yet simultaneously compelling characteristic of an almost entirely open back. It calls to me in a way that feels almost primal, like John Krasinski and chocolate-covered rice cakes. Plus, I think we can all acknowledge the appeal of an upside down trapezoid. Anyways, it's obvious why I was initially drawn to this Acne specimen and subsequently bookmarked it and revisited it and made love to it with my dilating pupils.

The only problem? This vest is exactly the kind of thing I would never buy for myself (unless a cheaper iteration suddenly cropped up at Zara). I can't justify spending $460 on a backless denim vest, even though it is supremely cool, because ultimately that is too much money to dish out for something that isn't very wearable in the long run. So I relegated myself to the nosebleed section of fashion--online window gazing.

But then I witnessed Leandra wearing the vest as a veritable t-shirt, and my latent desires to not just look, but actually own, were renewed. I mean, if the backless denim vest could double as a backless denim top, then maybe it's more versatile than I thought, right???? Right.

So guess what, kiddos? SAD INTRO TO THIS STORY IS OVER. IMMA DIY THIS JELLY.

Feel free to follow along and join me in this celebration of at-home creativity. I personally cannot think of a more worthwhile Memorial Day activity than making a customized denim frame for your shoulder blades that encourages slutty hugs.

Step #1: Find or purchase a cheap denim jacket. I used an old one from Joe Fresh that looks remarkably similar to the Old Navy jacket I cut up for my first DIY project on this blog. In case you are wondering, no, I do not stockpile khaki-colored outerwear for craft materials (but if you do, let's be friends).

Step #2: Take a pencil and draw the outline of an upside down trapezoid on the back of the jacket. Leave enough excess fabric so that you can fold the raw edges under to create a finished edge. (My mom is the best hand model/pencil slave.)

Step #3: Cut out the trapezoid.

Step #4: Fold in and pin the raw edges of the trapezoid to the inside of the jacket. Using a needle and thread, sew down the edges and remove the pins. The cutout in the back of the jacket shoulder now have a finished edges on all four sides.

Step #5: Determine how long you would like the sleeves of your vest to be. Use measuring tape and mark both sleeves at the same point with a pencil. I decided to cut a little bit less and fold up the excess fabric so I wouldn't have to do any extra sewing to finish the raw edges of the denim, but that is completely up to you.

Step #6: Wear your very own DIY cutout vest, and bask in the jealousy of everyone you encounter. Take a poorly lit iPhone picture in which your face somehow looks tanner than the rest of your body. Eat a kumquat. Kiss a baby. Refresh this page 30 times and follow me on twitter and instagram.

THE END.

Evolution of Woman (and Denim)

April Whites

Wear the Shorts, Skip the Treadmill

Clutch Lifestyle

The Shirt of Spring 2013

A Little Bit Blonder Now

Dressing for Lunch

Kentucky Derby Fashion

A Letter to the Met Gala Gods

Something New

Twenty-First Century Gatsby Fashion

Bermuda Shorts... Courtesy of Dad

My Grandmother's Closet

Identity Doodling and Isabel Marant

What About YOU?

Start Your Weekend Right

The Perfect Walking Shoe (An Update)

Supergas On The Loose

Bathing Suits

DIY Acne Cutout Vest