Vacation is the greatest thing. Ever.

Travel Essentials.

Booties
Hat (with feather because YES)
Daddy's by Lindsay Hunter. Mine is signed, "Happy Birthday, ya old ass bitch!" LOVE.
Sunnies

Today, I met the first gal of the summer who looked pastier than me. Her name was Sugar, and she seemed like kind of a bitch. We may well have been the same skin tone; perhaps she a bit more yellow, and I a mite more pinkish. Sugar, for the record, is an albino alligator. And I, for the record, am on the first real vacation I’ve taken in almost two years, in the loving arms of the Zydeco-soundtracked, swamp-creature-eating, opulent  mecca that is New Orleans.  And I’ve finally gotten a little color.

I could not love this place more. I just could not. 

It’s been a busy summer, and I’ve spent most of my time indoors during daylight hours. I love the sun—LOVE IT—and not being able to get out and play (even though I love my job and I work with the greatest people ever) has been a pain in the ass.  I didn’t realize how badly I needed a vacation (a break, and a new adventure) until we arrived here in New Orleans, my fiancé and I.

Even though I’ve been daydreaming about putting my feet up on the balcony railings of our second story townhouse rental (SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS, IT’S PINK ON THE OUTSIDE AND EVERYTHING INSIDE IS GILDED AND ANTIQUE. THEY’RE GONNA HAVE TO PRY ME OUT OF HERE WITH THE JAWS OF LIFE. AND THOSE JAWS WILL BE WEARING A SWEET ASS GRILL THAT HAS NOLA BURNISHED INTO ITS SURFACE. WITH DIAMONDS.), cold glass (let’s be real—bottle!) of Sauvingon Blanc in my hand and a seven month backlog of Vogue that I’ve not had a chance to get to at my disposal, I just didn’t realize how dire the need was.  

When the door to the apartment looks like this... You know there's something good inside.

Heaven, though. Just... heaven. And everything is metallic gold. Eeverywhere. 

Now that I sit here, nested in the height of an ancient ivy-clad oak, I wonder when the last time was that I really relaxed. Like, really relaxed. I can’t remember.  

Aaahhhhh.... Finally chilling the hell out. This green juice is my attempt at detoxing. Because alcohol. A lot of it.

Now, here I am. I feel feather-light, and tension is removing itself from my body in places I didn’t even realize it could dwell. It’s fucking amazing, for serious. I’m realizing I’ve barely taken any time for myself for far too long a stretch. I’ve gotten up each day, walked the pooches, tried to make myself look presentable (even though I have overslept through 5 alarms and am in a tremendous hurry, so there’s probably mascara on my cheeks and Chihuahua hair on my pants, sorry boss lady), rushed off to work, and come home exhausted to collapse in a pile of Thai take-out and online window shopping. And also Vampire TV shows that are marketed at an age group much younger than M. and I (shut up, you like them too).

This is me getting sunburned in my lazy people romper & old-ass bandana, and hanging out with the cutest damn alligator I've ever met. Not that I've met many gators, but I loves him. I wanted to take him home. But, the whole bit about eating my Chihuahuas is not really a selling point.

Side note, M. learned how to ^instagram^ things today! Yay.

Full disclosure: I’m not wearing a bra. I’m on vacation. I don’t fucking have to. My hair is in the greatest nest of a topknot and bundled with a black bandana I’ve worn Aunt-Jemima-style for fifteen years (I say "Aunt-Jemima-style," because I really wanted her to dress me when I was a little one. So, she wins.). I’m relishing the giant black Karen Walker Sunnies that are devouring most of my face (and let’s be honest with ourselves, I have a big fucking face, so these are some impressively large shades), I am wearing the romper equivalent of sweatpants, and I’m listening to the cackling of the neighborhood hens on the sidewalk. Talking about dudes, talking about love, talking about pork rinds and where to buy weed. Oh, Chickens. And I haven’t felt this happy in nine million years. I’m thrilled to recharge, to reconnect with the awesomeness that is me when cared for, and to bring it all back home to rock out my daily responsibilities with a brighter light and a rested, sharpened mind. Also, a “tan,” which really just means a sunburn that I really enjoyed getting. I have a widow's peak tan line, which is just impressive. Sorry I’m killing you, skin cells. We’ll discuss our melanoma situation when we get to it. Just kidding. Sort of.

So this is me, imploring you all to GET THE FUCK OUT AND TAKE A GODDAMN VACATION. Do something wonderful for yourself. Go SOMEWHERE. Turn off your damn phone. Drink a Bloody Mary the size of a bowling ball (which I did, last night, from which point awesomeness ensued and I went nuts on Bourbon Street like the semi-tourist I am), pick your poison, I don’t care. Then turn your phone back on again, and try to insta-capture the drunk ass you’ve made of yourself. Good job.

Said Bloody Mary... Bigger than my face.

You’re all amazing, chickadees. Seriously, monstrously fucking rad. But you’ve got to take a little time to do you, whenever you can, or you start to disappear into the monotony of making ends meet on the daily. And, so do I. Otherwise, that remarkable, soul-stirring YOU-ness starts to fade into the walls. And we can’t have that. No, we cannot.

BOOK A FUCKING FLIGHT. Do it right now.

When I'm loving life, seems to love me back <3

Love from NOLA!

-Ash

Brought To You By Stripes & Moccasins.

I adore summers in Chicago. The city becomes a sticky-sweet treasure trove of sidewalk dining, street fairs, and the always exciting mystery of what season it will feel like from day to day (currently: a balmy fall day in the high 60s). Not to mention the glorious beach-lined miles of lakefront, buying armfuls of Paletas from carts, and night walks through curtains of fireflies. Of course, the ever wonderful presence of bangin' humidity as well, which I totally do not mind. But it's nice once in a while, on cooler days like today, to be able to wear jeans and let my hair down without everything sticking to me everywhere. So, I did, and:
1. Found low-key sidewalk eatery
2. Enjoyed a disgusting amount of chickpea salad and Ace pear     
    cider (Cannot eat gluten. I'm living on the edge, friends.)
3. Settled in for a couple rounds of drinks with my dude 
4. Stole all of his french fries

I love you, summer!

Rope Tee & Favorite Sunnies

This is me, falling over.

Rockstar Jeans

Sass.

Akemi in Japan Bangle

Because MOCCASINS ARE THE ONLY THING 

when I've hurt my ankle running... Knock it off, limbs!

Awesome Neutral Bag & Minnetonka Moccasins

It's fantastic to live in a place where we can walk a short distance, beside lines of trees made incredibly green by this rainy July, and end up with our happy asses at a seriously relaxing sidewalk cafe. My fiance and I-- feet up, cocktails at hand, stuffing our faces beneath the Maple growing up through the center of our table. 

Even more brilliant, while walking home-- the chanting of Buddhists, the soulful voices of a church choir flooding through chapel windows, backyard chickens, a gazillion lightning bugs, car windows down/music turned up, a million more incredibly tempting eateries and watering holes (THERE IS ALWAYS ROOM FOR A SUNDAE, MARGIE, YOU TRICK... TOO FULL, HURTS SO GOOD), the one lady in my neighborhood who is always out there hula-hooping (rock it out, girrrrl), neon murals, eight thousand wild rabbits, way-too-personal conversations falling down to the pavement from open apartment windows... And people, just relaxing, just letting themselves be in love with summer in this city, even if they're cursing its winters under their breath.

Happy Summer, Chickens!

XO,

Ash

Gwen Stefani is My Jam, and She's Coming Back to Fashion Week!

Here's what I know: You are the hottest thing out there, as long as you're you. 

Gwen Stefani is my jam, guys.

She has style by the balls. 

Once upon a time, I was a fat kid in a horse camp tee shirt (HORSE CAMP WAS THE SHIT, don't hate), hanging out 90s style listening to No Doubt on my futon. I hadn't figured out how curly hair worked yet, and I had a mop of it that I would strategically plaster back into a tightwad bun as soon as I got out of the shower every morning. By lunchtime, the hair around my temples did a Sideshow Bob thing and I looked fly-er than fly, let me just tell you. I was a greasy fifth-grader, I had just hit 5'10" (I am still exactly that tall, and I am still a head taller than most people I know, and now I love it) and while I had a lot to say, I was the kind of kid who kept my head down and didn't speak much in school. I was awkward as ass and super shy, even though there were only like 10 kids in my class. I would return home at the end of the day, trip over my stovepipe jeans as I ran up the stairs to slam my door and fill journal after journal with whatever super serious issues I was facing (like Melissa R. didn't invite me to her birthday party and my 5th grade brain/heart couldn't deal), and eat a bag of Spicy Nacho Doritos in its entirety. Because that's what I did. I looked at Gwen Stefani and thought, HOLY SHIT. She was amazing. She was fearless. She had blue hair and wore bindi dots, for chrissakes, and I was completely enamored of this West Coast goddess. Her GIRLS ROCK message didn't hurt, either.

This, ladies and gentleman, was my idol.

She made awkward hot before she blossomed into a freaking divine fashion entity. All hail!



You rock those braces, 1999 Gwen Stefani. She stepped out in front of the entire world in braces, and it didn't seem to faze her a tiny bit. And let's all just remind ourselves, here, this badass snagged Gavin Rossdale while wearing braces. 

This led to my wearing of bindi dots (which seemed like the most daring thing in the world to me, at the time) with glittery jelly bracelets and frayed boy jean/ironic tee combos that were too short for me (figuring out how to dress a giant and overweight 5th grader body was really interesting). And Airwalks, I don't know where that part came from, but I wore lots of Airwalks. I don't even think I have photos of this anywhere, but if I ever find one, I promise full blog disclosure. Because I'm sure they would be tremendous, and horrifying, and great. And they should be seen. And they probably include my awesomely bad attempts at recreating this haistyle:

The amazing thing about it, though, was that unaware as my little untamed-eyebrow-sporting head may have been at the time, this was when I realized I could say something without speaking at all (Gwen seemed to be saying plenty, just in photos, from the pages of Teen Bop or whatever the hell I read). It taught me that my style was a language of sorts. When you're just starting off your teen years, and body parts don't match and voices are cracking and everything is gross, and so many of us have something in our heads saying YOU HAVE NO FREAKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE DOING, that's kind of huge. Especially if one of your pubescent issues is being totally scared to speak up for yourself like I was, because at that age (and sometimes beyond), so many of us think all we can do is blend into the walls to survive. 

So one little bindi dot, to my chubby junior high self, was enormous. It was a catalyst. It was the spark that took a lot of self-hatred and fear as kindling, and burned it up into beautiful tendrils of smoke that I could do with as I pleased. That fire has burned brighter and fizzled and reignited itself over the years so many times, and it's still going strong. It's what teaches me to listen to the inner guide that steers me always toward my highest good, even though sometimes I want to tell that bitch to shut up and let me eat ALL OF THE DOUGHNUTS IN THE WORLD. 

It was the beginning, for me, of finding my voice-- seeing someone who appeared to be authentically herself, and making no apologies. I think at some point, most of us have that moment (the one that says, it's cool, you don't have to try so hard-- just be you.) and usually it comes in a form we couldn't possibly have anticipated. And, sometimes, we don't realize what's happened until many years down the line. We just know that our skin feels suddenly more tailored to our bodies. Whatever that moment was for you, or whatever it's going to be, I'm so entirely glad for it (and for you!!!!). Look back at all of your embarrassing fashion mishaps, folks. I think they're something to be proud of. Even if you looked like an idiot. No, especially if you looked like an idiot. Because hey, you've gotta be willing to look like an idiot once in a while to get where you want to go. Also, you can use those photos to remind yourself just how ahead of the trend you are, because THE 90S ARE BACK, HOMIES! Do what you will with that.

This is happening now, and I don't think I am going to be able to resist it. Hi, Adidas slides!

Buy them here.

These days, Gwen has ditched the braces and is a rockstar mother, wife, The Voice judge/coach, musical powerhouse, overall inspiring human, and fashion design vixen extraordinaire. She's been absent from Le Runway for a spell, busy being there for her family and whatnot. I am SO thrilled to hear that she will be returning to show at Fashion Week this September (read more about it here). SQUEEEEEEE. 

Anywhoooo, I would love to give an enormous thank you to this woman for helping me see that style is an amazing form of expression. It's been awesome and ridiculous to see her trasnformation over the years, and I can't wait to see what she comes up with next. 

Queen of L.A.M.B.

I wonder if I still have that Horse Camp tee kicking around somewhere? What a treasure.

Go forth, be you, and commence with badassery. 

XO,

Ash

Homegirl Can't Afford Valentino: The Rockstud Saga

I've been fantasizing about delicate vines of studded Valentino leather climbing my ankles, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Ah, the Valentino "Rockstud" Pump. The delicious feeling of wearing them while strolling the cobblestone roadways of quaint Italian villages (to which you'd be automatically transported as soon as you put them on, and they would cause all cottage-cheese-dimpled asses to smooth into some delectable Beyonce jelly, because Valentino!) is just too fantastic... in my imagination.

Um... and yours too! Don't pretend I'm alone in this. You've seen them. Let us take a moment and revel in their glory.

The Rockstud:

*** Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh *** 

(That was the sound of a million angels in perfect harmony, as the sky parted and divine beings came down to sing the praises of these shoes. For real, though... I'm sure it happens. If you would like to test-drive this theory, you can purchase them here.)

Buuuut here's the deal. While I respect every bit of craftsmanship, skill, and heart that went into the creation of each pair of these obnoxiously rad shoes, the whole $1,000+ price tag isn't really happening for me right this minute. I'm saving for a wedding (WEDDINGS are the most expensive thing EVER, WTF), paying off student loans, trying to eat a lot of fruits and vegetables (WHY ARE BERRIES SO EXPENSIVE), experiencing all of the other really difficult first world problems of a Chicago Millennial, and onward. Also... I just don't want to spend that much on shoes.

Singing the same song? Well, dear chickadee, I have found us some answers.

My solution:

The Sam Edelman "Ollie"

 

 

Top-- June & Hudson

Shorts-- Zara

Sunnies-- Karen Walker

Jewels-- Sparkles Fine Jewelry

 

This shoe has all the allure of Valentino's "Rockstud", with a little less spike and a half-inch more height. If you need a little more lift, Sam's got you covered at around a tenth of the price. I purchased these recently and I am in love. Heads up: I had to size down a half size. This style is flying off the interweb shelves. You can also try to snag a pair here (on sale!!!) or here. BONUS: These are actually super comfortable! I wandered all over the place in these, in the 90 degree heat, and barely noticed I wasn't wearing flip flops. For serious. 

Other Faves:

1. The Schutz "Brenae"

I adore this take on the studded T-strap.

2. The Wild Diva Lounge "Adora"

You can also find them in Ivory here.

3. Miu Miu Studded Kitten Heel Pump

4. The Sole Society "Anneke" Pump

5. The Sole Society "Susie" Flats

And, okay, these don't look anything like the Rockstud, but they do have studs... Just because I love them:

The Kenneth Cole New York "York"

Go forth and treat thine feet.

XO,

Ash