Similar to how we all remember where we were and what we were doing when all the big moments in our life happened, I was wasting my morning scrolling through my Facebook feed when I learned that Target was doing a collab with 3.1 Phillip Lim.
At this moment, I believed in reincarnation. I’m telling you – I died, guys.
I watched that promo video over and over, then went in to work (where I was selling some real prime designer threads) to gush to everyone that, hashtag, PhillipLimForTarget was a thing. P Lim, like any progressive designer, has stunning and intricate and downright beautiful stuff… of the likes mere mortals can never afford. Oh, I’ve spent seasons pining over his dresses and sweaters and whimsical printed tunics, and while my job enabled me to exercise a very liberal discount, I’ve yet to add a 3.1 piece to my closet.
Not that any of it matters because I’ve never loved a garment the way I love his bags. And I’m not even a purse person.
What I carry my feminine nonsense in is always some combination of cheap and practical. I need a strap, and then like, a zipper. So why am I getting all doe-eyed every moment I pass by a Phillip Lim Pashli bag? Probably because we’re soul mates.
Please feel sorry for me because that sleek and perfect designer handbag on the left is sucking the living $700 right out of me. It’s a many splendid thing, but I’ve had to turn down love because, like Ewan McGreggor, I can’t afford to sleep with it.
But now there’s a cure for this ridiculous obsession with the Pashli bag, and it’s at Target, like, five hours ago. Hellooooo $35 sloppy-seconds satchel! It’s like the kind of simple sister to the one above, and, honestly, I wish I hadn’t cross compared them because now my cheap bag looks even cheaper.
Whelp, my early-morning ferver has been squandered, however, this only means the dream lives on. I start saving today!But before we get ahead of ourselves, let’s take a look at some of my DEBT!
Here’s what I’ve picked up at 3am from this collaboration:
In truth, I wasn’t able to get my physical hands on the yellow Pashli bag, color-blocked sweater or peplum top. For those, we’re going to have to thank Mom in Hawaii who snuck out of the house in the wee Sunday hours to get the things her daughter couldn’t snag in PST. How she got the mini satchel, I quote, “I have no idea.” I’m calling it a mix of fortune and a recessive ninja gene – And I’m not going to fight genetics.
All in all, Phillip Lim for Target was a circus everywhere, from small towns to the interwebs and isolated tropical islands. I got more than what I expected to, and I didn’t even have to punch anyone in the guts.
Blue Leather Jackets. What’s not fascinating about the prospect of a leathered blue. In jacket formation.
A woman came up to me last week and asked for it. “Do you have a blue leather jacket?” And I lost my shit. “…You’re kidding,” I said, because, duh, I’ve got your blue leather jacket right here.
It was Theysken’s Theory that first brought this blue leather nonsense to my attention. Minor correction: It was more like indigo suede, but the statement was there. It’s fibrous softness, padded shoulders and asymmetrical zipper placing were statements to this years’ moto jacket, but man, that blue was the portal to a very warm and fashion-forward heaven. So I died.
My favorite of the following draws from my general bias for Helmut Lang. I love the color blocking and the unusual draping that’s not often seen with leather. And I am curious to see how the Alexander McQueen piece functions and if those pocket details are more silhouette-shaping than they are practical. But, of course, Theysken’s Theory still holds my heart for being the originator, the emotional ground zero from which my fascination stemmed.
But Blue Leather Jackets, man, I’m telling you.
Let it be known: I love San Francisco. The people are left and right, straight-up attractive, and the food is so divine that your palate reaches enlightenment three times a day. The drinks are strong and beer floods the pints of dive bars everywhere, getting you there and back like the best taxi ride of your life. I’ve sat in parks, on patios, bay side, bar side and on roof tops so high and glorious that all I could do was spin in circles, reliving the panorama rotation after rotation.
It’s been two weeks and then some. I could never leave, I think, if not for the dreams I dream of sundresses.
This isn’t an invented allegory. Before I fall asleep there’s a consistent scenario that flashes through my mind. It’s just me in a denim sundress and a little wicker boat hat. We’ve seen this outfit before. It’s a classic take on that summer-time girl, traipsing from garden to stream, unencumbered by norm or cares or cold, wind or jackets. It’s sunshine and warmth and fireflies, though I’ve never seen one before in my life. And while I live in a city that’s perfect at a perpetual 60 degrees, my unconsciousness schemes to remind me of summer.
And how terribly ironic, to flee Hawaii in part of the heat only to slumber of days in the sun. I roll my eyes at my dozing mind to betray me in such a way, though I understand that it’s the sudden lack of it that makes me crave the warmth.
While I insist my blood has thickened and that I love rewearing the two wool sweaters I own, I’ll simply have to bear with with those midnight reminders that may haps I miss the sun.
(But you know I just miss wearing sundresses, right?)
I made the relocation. It was a long time coming, predestined before the move back home, and now the miles have been traversed and I am here! I’ve arrived! The great Nixodus has occurred!
And while it’s a breath of sweet, sweet fresh air, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m living out of boxes. My wardrobe is but a decaying corpse, bloating within its mobile coffin, ready to spill forth its guts and tarnish the ground with loose skirts, bras and jackets. I can’t keep it contained, this string of intestines, and what arrived as an organized body of clothing has only manifested into a crime scene.
Which brings to hand the arduous task of getting dressed when your closet is a metaphoric cadaver.
Here’s what I learned:
1) Organize your suitcases beforehand. I’ve got business in one, party in the other, and I simply turn to the appropriate bag when tackling the morning ritual.
2). Have a separate bag for dirty laundry. Eff the idea of errant, dirty socks (panties) schmoozing with your fresh and so clean linens. No. Get a laundry bag, fool.
3). Hanging wrinkled clothes in a steaming bathroom is bullshit. You gotta do some old-fashioned ironing or pick up some spray-on wrinkle relaxer. You may be living out of a suitcase but you really don’t need to look like it.
4). And relax. You just moved to a new city! What an adventure. Now stop fretting, put some pants on and drink a mimosa (bottomless), please.
And now here are some lovely snaps of my first week in San Francisco.
My best friend Mai and I were watching something like Life of Pi or that gangster flick with Ryan Gosling when we first saw the trailer for The Great Gatsby. Since then, we’ve been all a flutter for this film, (re)reading the book and engaging in countdowns. And while the culmination of our wait was somewhat bit mediocre, there’s still a lingering impact that Gatsby has left in its wake.
Similar to how Lisbeth Salander silently lent her gothic aura to the mainstream wardrobe, so too did Daisy Buchanan.
And there’s no denying the sudden and uproarious influx of drop-waist dresses. They’ve been coming out all season and the one before, from A.L.C.’s silk paisley dress to a color-blocked basic from T by Alexander Wang. And while the 20s dress emphasized a kind of shapelessness, from sheath dresses to tunic tops, it didn’t take away from a woman’s sultry femininity. Pearls, lace, and feathers were adornments that helped to retain a kind of sexuality despite the onset of slacks and short bobs.
Which is just the kind of juxtaposition that titilates my fashion hankerings!
So go ahead and throw me in a drop waist. Give me chunky heels, lace for days and enough pearls to make the ocean rise two centimeters from the tears of death-row oysters. And then top it off with some glitzy hair comb or a darling cloche hat to take it back 100 years. I’ll be the splitting image of my great-grandmother and it’ll bring instant zen to my white ancestors.
This collage pretty much assembled itself into three darling outfits that are perfect for brunches, affairs and lurid house parties. While I don’t particularly advocate three-way cheating, I do support day drinking, patio lounging and clothes flinging. With these classy pieces, you could easily reenact the worst romance in history, or simply have a particularly stylish evening out.
So read the book, skip the movie and dress like that sultry Jordan Baker. And if you’re looking for a few good cocktails to drive the theme home, then check out this Gatsby alcohol guide which will surely get you there.