Hi! I am so sorry to worry anyone about the unexpected blog break. Every day I would sit down to try to put thoughts to everything I was feeling. But the words never came. I wanted my explanation to be perfect. My words to be perfect. And yet, I rewrote many drafts with nary a perfect word in sight. How do you put emotions into words without pulling them from your soul in the process?

The truth is that I am just having a wee bit of a hard time right now. I cannot really explain it without getting into too personal of a detail.

I do plan on blogging again soon. I am feeling better. Truly. I am not a person who does well with any sort of change and a few things occurred all at once during the new year that threw me into a period of sadness that felt all consuming. But I am feeling more and more like myself with each day.

Thank you for all of your sweet words! They meant the world to me!


I Call Bull

Dog, that is.


It is surprisingly hard to find cute english bulldog clothes. And, yes. I realize that might be a weird thing to search for, but I like bulldogs. I like clothes. And ever the two shall meet.


There are numerous french bulldog items. And pug items. But hardly ever english bulldogs. I wonder why that is. Whatever the reason, I usually scoop up the French Bulldog tees and give them love, any way. This French Bulldog shirt was no exception. My husband wants our next dog to be a French Bulldog. I want to stick with what we have, um, because have you seen our walls? They are covered in English Bulldog and Bichon paintings. It would seem weird not to continue the theme.


But, I digress.

What I really want to talk about is the act of getting dressed.

I am not a fashion blog. Or a style blog. Or anything like that, regardless of what some might think. I know nothing about either of those things.


I am simply a “getting dressed” blog.

As in, whoppee! I got dressed today! I can do this thing called life. Let’s be dressed together because whilst naked always sounds like fun it rarely ends up being so. Just ask my neighbors.


Men and women used to dress for the day. They used to really dress. I am not quite sure when it stopped. To be frank, I don’t really care what anybody else wears. I would never judge. I just wish that it went both ways.


For instance, I was at the grocery store later the day I wore this last week and the cashier said to me, “You’re all dressed up. Where are you going?” And I thought to myself, I’m wearing a dog t-shirt and a skirt. This should not be described as dressed up.

I started to feel defensive as other people turned to stare at the ridiculous girl who was dressed up.

“I just came back from a date,” I lied.

Well, I kind of lied. I had gone and seen a movie with my husband but we ate at Del Taco and went to the early bird seating. The whole “experience” cost less than $20. It was not exactly fancy, but again… dog t-shirt.


Honestly, putting on happy clothes makes a huge difference in my day. I knew I wanted to pair this happy shirt with my skirt I had scored at the consignment store last year for $10 (similar skirt here. I previously wore the skirt in this post here with my bulldog). The Glimmered Horseshoe Necklace, boots and belt were past sale scores from Anthropologie. And the scarf is a few years old from H&M.

Are you one of the “dressed up” few? How does that make you feel?

Did you notice that I never, not once, mentioned the somewhat unfortunate placement of the bulldogs on this shirt? It is because I am growing up. I didn’t even snicker it at all.


The Old Van


When I was growing up, my dad had a van. A really old van. And not old in the classic-vintage-any-kind-of-cool-way van.

Just old.

And dirty.

Not dirty old man.

But dirty old van.

Although, I hope to one day be called both.


I have spent my adult life searching for a van with the insides that could match that one. The one from my memories. With the interior so covered in dog hair and dust that when you slid the door open, it appeared as though my father was throwing magic confetti into the air.

If magic confetti was made out of dog hair.

Which I am quite positive it is.

I am thinking I will never find a van quite like it.

My dad’s favorite color is blue. Every year he would paint his van a different shade of blue. Inevitably, it would chip or fade, so the van always had patches of different shades of blue peeking through it. It was like a blueberry jelly bean. Before they made blueberry jelly beans. It actually looked quite pretty paired with the rust. It had a special ombre effect decades before ombre would become fashionable.

When we were little we loved riding in the van. It had no unnecessary items. Such as seatbelts.

My sister and I would argue over who would get to ride in the front.

Looking back, I cannot quite figure out why this was. The front seat sat precariously balanced. Another unnecessary item in this van was the bolt that would have held the front seat in place. This meant that if you leaned back in the chair, it would topple over backwards.

We were a no frills family.

Seatbelts? Pfffft.

A seat that would stay in place? What are we? The Rockefellers?

Doors that stayed shut? Please. Those are for amateurs. Just don’t lean on the door and you’ll be fine. As in, you won’t tumble out onto the moving road. Or rather onto the road from the moving vehicle. I use the word “vehicle” loosely. It was more like the blue ride of terror.

I will never forget when my little sister was two.

I was pouting in the back of the van. Sitting as close to the console as I could get, away from the back. I was scared of the depths of the van. In fact, I never went back there. It was where all of the magic confetti was made. Too much of that stuff and I was sure I would drift into the dust motes that clung to the carpet as they unsuccessfully avoided being made into illustrious scraps of crap.

I was glowering at my sister who had once again scored the fun seat. The seat up front. She was busy spinning and trying as hard as she could to keep her balance so the seat would not topple into the back where I would surely hold her for ransom in an attempt to claim her throne.

It happened so quickly.

One moment we were being jostled down the dirt road that led to our house from my grandparent’s home. And the next moment, the front door had swung open.

And my little sister. My two year old little sister was holding on to the open door by the window frame. Dangling there like an unfortunate mountain climber in an action movie.

Or an unfortunate child of the eighties before there were laws concerning the safety of automobiles.

I will admit to laughing. I had no idea how dangerous the situation was. I thought she was just up to her old tricks. She was the dare devil. I seriously thought she was purposefully hanging onto an open door.

It was awesome.

And then she let go.

And my mom freaked the freak out.

She stopped the van.

She was terrified that she had run my sister over.

But she had merely fallen out. There was not a scratch on her.

It had to be all of that magical confetti.

We were always covered in the stuff.

You would think it was at this point that something in or on the van would change. Such as, I don’t know, adding a little fancy somethin’ like a bolt to a seat or a screw to the door.

Or a seatbelt for a toddler.


The only thing changing on that van was which color blue it would be from one day to the next.

If you got black and blue from riding in the van. Well, you just matched it better.

We are going to fast forward this story to when I was thirteen. Seven years had passed since my sister’s little incident. The van had not changed. Or rather, I am sure it was still being painted yearly and the magical confetti had now had seven years to grow bigger. Thicker. Fuller. As we acquired more and more dogs to ride in the van (a story for another day).

We had a bus lane at our school. For buses. Let me repeat. For BUSES!

But my dad, well, my dad would pull up in the bus lane whenever he would pick me up. From Junior High School. It would go yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Yellow. Blue. Yellow.

No one ever told him to move. They were much too in awe of his van.

I would, as quickly as I could manage, run up to the van. Yank it open, pause to admire the magic confetti as it swarmed into the sunlight intent on infecting delighting anyone who passed by, and then jump into the back as fast I could. Why the back? You ask.

I think maybe I was humbled by how amazing my ride was and maybe I did not want anyone seeing who was in the blue van. I did not want to be hounded with autographs. Did I mention the back seat had no windows? Yea. I was incognito in my coolness.

Years later I would learn that my little sister would make my dad park a block away from that junior high school so that she would not have to be bombarded by fans. You know. The fans that would swarm that awesome van.

Or at least, that is what I assumed.

My dad always fondly tells the story of how I was not embarrassed of his method of transportation. Of how my sister was so mean to make him park so far away. Of how I was the good daughter that allowed the van to truly shine. Where it did not belonged.

In the bus lane.

Of course.

I did not have the heart to tell him it just never occurred to me to ask him to park elsewhere.

The thought just never came.

You can blame it on my immaturity. My true love for the van. My desire for fame.

But we all know the truth.

The real culprit was the magic confetti.

I snorted too much of it.

I became an addict.

And then it was taken away. Sold. Never to be seen again. It went to a dealer. And I’m not talking cars.

I’m speaking of nostalgic shrapnel. Flakes of time. Decades. Of. Laughter. And screams.

That must be the reason that whenever I see a van the color of the sky, I grin widely and rush forward to peer inside.

To get a whiff.

Of blue painted dust mote magical memories.

Folk Tale


This Free People black dress that I purchased last summer continues to be one of my favorite pieces in my closet. I previously wore it with sandals, but I wanted to try belting it with tights and boots for this season. The dress I am wearing is sold out, but I adore the look of this dress in white. It has a similar easy vibe.


I love the longer back. I sometimes hate the new high-low trend, but it works with my lifestyle.

My lifestyle being that of a klutz. I am always dropping things and having to bend over and get them.


Case in point, the other day I was wearing my denim shirt “dress.” Thankfully with tights. I was in the grocery store. I had gone inside for two things and as I was walking to the register, I somehow managed to pick up ten items. I had them precariously balanced in my arms.


I probably would have made it to the register without a mishap, had I not at that moment noticed my children’s kindergarten teacher with her husband in another aisle.

We locked eyes and as I went to wave, I proceeded to drop all of my items on the floor. Three times! Over and over, I bent over and picked up cans and packages of cheese and chips.

It was mortifying.

I am sure the people behind me probably thought it was even more so.

I really could have used a high-low dress that day. Who am I kidding? I could use a high-low dress everyday.


Let’s move along from my mortification. I purchased this vintage folk belt from Modcloth last year (previously worn here). I love it so much. I keep it on my dresser instead of with my other belts because I am scared of it breaking.


I took these pictures on my dad’s property. I think I only explored this road once as a child. I was not very adventurous. Besides, the possibility of rattlesnakes curbed my desire to walk around.


Did you explore your neighborhood growing up? Or were you exploring worlds in books like I was? And when am I going to learn that I always need a grocery cart, even when I am “just running in”?