Just the tip...

...of the iceberg, that is. 

At the Clover Grill, preparing to tear myself away from New Orleans and hop on a plane. This shirt always puts me in a great mood. THE COLORS. 

(Just the tip! Just for a minute! Just to see how it feels!)

Because maybe it feels like 1/4 pound of pure Beef Pleasure!

Seriously, though, I'm about to get deep on your asses.

I found myself, this past week, in earshot of a statement that went something like this:

"Anyone who cares about fashion, or puts any stock in appearance, must not have much going on upstairs. You've got to be pretty shallow for that kind of thing to matter."

...and I was like, IS THIS DUDE FOR REAL?

I consequently found myself thinking, Oh dear, what a dickbag. 

This got me to wondering about the people I know-- male, female, and in between --who I count among the most stylish individuals in my life. The funny thing is, these are some of the most brilliant, thoughtful, creative, well-adjusted, remarkable people that I know. The lot of them are a drawer full of really fucking sharp knives. Or so the saying would go. 

The more I thought about these amazing human beings, who embody this accused "shallowness" with the accuracy of a fucking abyssal plane, I found myself thinking about why it is that they all might share this trait. These are artists, entrepreneurs, teachers, and stay-at-home parents. These are lawyers, students, baristas, politicos and NPO champions. These are people who think amazing thoughts, do amazing things, and in my humble opinion, help to create a reality that nourishes, nurtures, and provokes thought, all in very different ways. Also, most of them are unspeakably funny to boot. On the point of ye olde (aforementioned) bag of dicks, they could not be a farther cry from his assumption. 

Doesn't it just make you smile?

(It should be noted, perhaps, that this particular person appeared to excel in the styling of one practiced, perfectly ironic fashion. Just saying.)

If I think about this collection of people, I realize I have never actually asked them about why they find themselves in a love affair with style. If I did, I know I would get one very sassy, "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just this naturally fucking fabulous." I would hear a lot about personal expression, identity, and creative passion. I would receive, I am certain, endless answers speaking to the human mystery of adornment and all of that. 

If I ask myself, it is simply this:

I dress for a feeling. Sometimes that feeling translates as a color; sometimes, it is a silhouette, a texture, or a print. When I see it in the mirror, it just makes sense. Sometimes that feeling is the power I seem to gain from donning a piece. Clothing (and all facets of self-adornment) can sometimes be an armor for me. Not in the sense that I am attempting to shield myself from the world, or keep myself withdrawn; rather, it is simply stepping into my day knowing that I am equipped properly for whatever battle I might face so that I may be more present (and in the mindset of kicking ass). Different days, each mood and perspective, simply require their own war paint, so to speak. I don't think I'm alone in that. 

Life feeling completely askew? It's cool. TRIBAL PATTERNS FOR EVERYONE!

This "war paint," or what have you, is done in the style of, some shit is going down with my health, and it's nothing new, and I'm okay... but it's still uncomfortable as fuck and kind of scary.

It's not that you will see me running the streets in chainmail anytime soon (though I am totally unopposed to this idea, WHAT'S UP LAYERING), it is just this: 

I have so many moving parts. If my decoration of the outside can make all of the internal gears turn a little more easily, I'm sure as fuck going to take that route. It is a kindness. And If I'm feeling peaceful, I want to paint that still bit of water all across myself. Maybe it will make someone smile. Maybe I feel connected to a sweatshirt with a doughnut on it that day, and someone is tickled enough to strike up an awesome conversation. Maybe I find within myself that I absolutely have to wear daytime sequins and hot pink cowboy boots, because, you know what? We don't have to take ourselves so seriously all the damn time. 

This is me, partying with my shit, shadows or none. 

Anyway, guy-who-made-that-comment, I would love to be able to ask this question of you. What would you say? 

Hugs, kisses, and every encouragement to wear whatever the fuck you want and do it proudly,

-Ash

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

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